


folklore

by taylordswift



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Bottom!Villanelle, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Smut, Top!Eve, What’s a plot?, dark!eve, please they love each other so much, so much yearning, the smut has arrived
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:34:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25533697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylordswift/pseuds/taylordswift
Summary: Yes, this is inspired by folklore by Taylor Swift because every single song on that album has Villaneve energy.After shooting Eve in Rome, Villanelle struggles to cope with the grief, guilt, and heartache of knowing that Eve is dead because of her. Or is she?
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 118
Kudos: 388





	1. greatest loves of all time (are over now)

***

_We never painted by the numbers, baby_

_But we were making it count_

_You know the greatest loves all of time are over now_

_I guess you never know, you never know_

_And it’s another day of waking up alone_

_But we were something, don’t you think so?_

the 1 - taylor swift 

***

In the twenty-odd years that she has been alive, Villanelle has only had a total of three dreams — all recurring, all extremely vivid, all nightmares. 

The first began her first night at the orphanage. It plagued her sleep night after night — images of flames slowly engulfing her, her tiny arms reaching out to a mother who held matches behind her back. She burned the first two floors to make it stop. 

The second was after Anna first touched her — with soft hands and dark eyes and cruel intentions. Her teacher’s voice would echo in her head each time she slept, growing louder and louder, until Villanelle felt like a child again. She had the best sleep of her life her first night behind bars. 

The third is happening now. 

There’s a gun in her hand, stretched out and aimed at Eve. Her finger trembles against the trigger, as sweat and blood glistens on her face under the Roman sun. She takes a shaky breath, swallows hard, and makes a choice she can never take back. The sound is so loud it echoes through the ruins. The body lies face down in a pool of fresh blood. And Eve — _gorgeous_ Eve — stands over her corpse and smiles. 

Villanelle jerks awake, reaching for the gun underneath her pillow and aiming it at nothing. Her room is dark, empty, and quiet save for her heavy, ragged breathing. 

“Fuck,” she whispers to herself, letting herself fall back onto the bed and resting the gun on her stomach. “Fuck,” she says once more, before rolling over and reaching for her cellphone. 

It’s a burner phone, of course, but it doesn’t matter. She has the number memorized. 

_I dreamed of you again._

She stops, her fingers hovering over the bright screen. She deletes and tries again. 

_Get out of my head, you asshole._

Perfect. She smirks and hits send. There is a slight pause, and then: Not Delivered. 

—

It’s been three months since she killed Eve — three months since she got a good night’s sleep. It’s beginning to affect her work. 

“I was never this sloppy,” Dasha says, wagging a finger at her. Villanelle groans, throwing her head back dramatically and leaning back on her chair, balancing on the back legs. Dasha leans forward and pulls her back with a thud. Suddenly they are face to face again. “You need to take this seriously.” 

“I am very serious,” Villanelle says innocently, flashing big eyes at her. 

“Act like it.” Dasha gets up from the table, clearing off Villanelle’s half-eaten omelette. 

“Hey, I wasn’t done that with that!” she argues, but Dasha doesn’t seem to care. She groans again, and leans back on her chair once more. She throws her head back and watches an upside-down Dasha rummage through the kitchen. 

She’s been working with the Twelve again for the past month, but it’s not the same as before. Dasha isn’t Konstantin, but she doesn’t want Konstantin. She doesn’t know what she wants. The missions are the same, and maybe that’s the issue. She feels...bored. 

“If you want your sticking promotion, you need to impress them,” she reminds her for the millionth time. 

This was her one condition to come back to the Twelve — to be a Keeper. She wanted to know the names of the Twelve, to understand the inner mechanisms of the organization that took Oksana and made her into Villanelle. Information is knowledge and knowledge is power. And maybe she can finally sleep at night again.

Dasha returns to the table, but not before pushing the back of Villanelle’s chair forward so that all legs are planted on the ground. Another thud. 

“I have another assignment for you,” Dasha announces. “This one should be fun.”

_It’s all the same_ , she thinks. _It’s always all the same._ But she takes the postcard and promises to do a better job this time (whatever that means). 

— 

The assignment, as she had suspected, is not fun at all. But it’s simple and efficient and not sloppy, just like Dasha wanted. 

She’s sitting at a hotel bar, her hands flirtatiously playing with her target’s tie. She laughs at something he says, though she barely even registers his words. He doesn’t seem to notice. They never do. 

Flash forward twenty minutes and he’s leaning in to kiss her. Villanelle turns her face away, so that his drunken lips meet the skin of her neck instead. She tries hard not to shudder. 

“Let’s go to my room,” he whispers in her ear, to which she rolls her eyes. Too easy. 

They head upstairs, him leading the way although Villanelle knows exactly where they’re going. Once inside his room, he turns to kiss her but she pushes him back onto the bed. The fool smiles excitedly up at his killer. 

“Lie down,” she commands and he obeys, his hands clumsily trying to undo his belt. He furrows his brow when the task proves more difficult than anticipated. He looks back up at her, and suddenly the room is spinning. 

“You should really pay more attention to your drink,” Villanelle says, revealing her Russian accent for the first time. “Men forget to do that.” She shrugs, leaning back on the wall to watch him slowly die. _It’s all the same. It’s always all the same._

She thinks of messaging Eve again, but she knows it won’t take away this feeling. 

She does it anyway. 

_You ruined everything._

Send. Pause. Not Delivered. 

  
  


— 

She heads to the hotel next door and sits at the bar there too, contemplating what to do. Usually after kills, she feels a very specific kind of electrified all over — a feeling that overwhelms and overtakes and leads her into someone’s bed. But not tonight. 

She drinks a gin and tonic, wondering what Eve’s drink of choice would be. But what does that matter? It doesn’t. She finishes off her drink, then takes the lime wedge off the glass and sinks her teeth into it. 

“Can I buy you another?”

Her Spanish accent is thick and harsh and exactly what Villanelle needs to snap out of whatever trance she’s in. 

“Hello,” she responds, mimicking her accent (just for fun), smiling back at her. She’s tall and thin and beautiful, but she’s a little too young and her hair’s not quite right. “I would love another.” 

“Ah,” the woman’s eyes widen in delightful surprise. “¿Hablas castellano?” 

“Sí,” she nods, because why not? 

The woman, Villanelle learns, is named Maria. She’s an accountant — or a banker? Villanelle doesn’t care. She’s flirty and is wearing amazing shoes, so she lets her talk. She lets her buy her drinks, she lets her touch her arm, she lets her guide her up into her hotel room. 

“Where is your room?” Maria asks, still in Spanish, probably wondering if it’s closer than hers so that she can start undressing sooner. Villanelle is much less impatient. 

“I am not staying here,” she says truthfully. “I was waiting for a date at the bar, but they didn't show,” she lies. In her pocket, she fiddles with her phone. 

“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not,” Maria flirts, inching closer as they wait for the elevator ding. 

— 

She lets Maria fuck her, through she’s not very good at it. She fucks her too, but finds her moans a little too high pitched, a little too annoying. 

It’s almost 3 in the morning when she messages again, with Maria snoring lightly next to her. 

_You said you’d give me everything._

Send. Pause. Not Delivered. 

_You liar._

Send. Pause. Not Delivered. 

  
  


— 

She doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but the gin and tonics catch up to her and she dozes off. She dreams. 

When she wakes up, she’s pushed back down by unfamiliar hands before she can reach for the gun that isn’t there. 

“It’s okay,” Maria says. “Just a dream, just a dream.” She repeats this over and over, but the gunshot is still ringing in Villanelle’s ears.

Instinctually, she pushes Maria off of her, gets on top, and pins her wrists above her head. She eyes the room, in search of a weapon, but finds complete darkness all around her. 

“Just a dream,” she says once more. Villanelle looks down, vaguely making out the shape of Maria’s face. “Just a dre—”

She smashes down onto her, kissing her ferociously, with one hand still pinning her wrists to the bed and the other making its way down between their bodies. This time she doesn’t mind the moans. 

— 

She doesn’t like Maria. Not at all. She doesn’t like the way she chews, the way she laughs, the way she cums, the way she calls instead of texts (what a psychopath). But when they fuck in the middle of the night, it makes everything else in her mind stop. 

Plus she wears the same size shoe as Villanelle, so she decides to keep her around. 

Maria (who Villanelle learns is neither an accountant nor a banker, but the ex-wife of a very powerful man with a very Spanish name) extends her holiday and Villanelle is surprisingly grateful. 

She comes by the hotel room, every single night — _only_ at night — and Maria is always there. Sometimes they go out, sometimes they stay in. It doesn’t make a difference. Villanelle knows it’s a small price to pay for temporary peace. 

It’s a routine now: going in and out of her room, eating expensive meals, and wearing glamorous dresses. Villanelle feels proud of this. _Healthy people have routines._ So she pretends (she’s very good at that, you know?) that her jokes are funny, that her haircut is cute, that it’s her fingers that make her cum. 

_This is good_ , she thinks. _This is healthy._

But then, one night, Maria says, “I should go home. I don’t know what I am doing here anymore.”

Villanelle furrows her brow, confused. “You are with me,” she reminds her, as if to say _What more is there to do?_

“This is fun, darling,” Maria says, placing a hand on Villanelle’s. “But I want more.”

“More?”

“Of you.” 

Suddenly Villanelle is angry. Maria, who gets all of her half-moans, her half-hearted orgasms, her half-slept nights, wants more— as if she owes her anything; as if showing up at all wasn’t already more than enough. As if there’s even anything more than that. _There is nothing more._

She starts to pull her hand away, but Maria stops her. 

“Te amo,” Maria whispers, with a cracking voice and tear-filled eyes. And Villanelle thinks, _it’s a small price to pay for temporary peace._

— 

That night Maria asks, “What happened to you?” with her hand reaching out to touch her scar. Villanelle has seen her eyeing her scar for days now, with this question balancing on the tip of her tongue. She knew it would eventually tip forward and be materialized in the air between them. But she doesn’t want it too. So she stops her mid-way, flips her on her back, and moves her hand away and onto her breasts instead. 

Maria, who’s completely lost interest in the scar, finds her mouth with hers. And Villanelle revels in being touched everywhere — everywhere, everywhere, everywhere but _there_. 

Hours later, she doesn’t sleep, but spends the night with one hand tracing her scar over and over, and the other holding her phone. 

_You never touched me right._

Delete. 

_You never touched me properly._

Delete. 

_I wish you’d touch me again._

Delete. 

She doesn’t see Maria again. 

— 

“I have present for you,” Dasha says, barging into her apartment with a giant bag in hand. Villanelle raises her eyebrows, intrigued and only slightly annoyed at the lack of knocking. 

“Is it a puppy?” Dasha rolls her eyes at this. “I’m more of a cat person, but if the puppy is wearing a sweater, then I will consider it.” 

“You take nothing seriously,” she says, to which Villanelle simply shrugs her shoulders. 

“So it’s not a puppy?” She pouts, crossing her arms and looking wide-eyed. 

“Better,” Dasha says. “But first…” From the giant bag she pulls out a pair of bowling balls. 

“Oh, no.” 

— 

They’re at the bowling alley, and Villanelle can feel herself dying with each passing minute she spends in rented bowling shoes. 

“Is this the present?” she groans after rolling her third gutter ball in a row. “You are terrible at gift-giving.” 

“You are just terrible at bowling,” Dasha retorts, as she walks up to the lane. Villanelle sticks out her tongue when she isn’t looking. 

“Stupid game,” she grumbles as she plops down on her seat. Dasha rolls a strike, and Villanelle claps sarcastically for her. “Wooow, you rolled a ball into some pins and then they fell. Amazing.”

“Don’t be a sour loser,” Dasha says, walking back and sitting next to Villanelle. “Your present is over there.” She nods her head toward the check-in desk, where a very pretty teenage boy is spraying shoes with disinfectant. 

“He’s a little too young for me,” Villanelle says, eyeing the boy. “And I prefer women.” 

“And he men,” Dasha informs her. “His name is Felix.”

“Oh-kay...” She loses interest and turns her gaze to the mother-of-two who is returning her shoes instead. She wonders if she would be less nosey than Maria. 

“You will manage him, train him, make him as good as you,” Dasha continues. 

Villanelle scoffs, then says, “This is not what I wanted.” 

“It is what you’re getting,” she explains. “They need to see you are serious about this. Now go say hello.” 

“Super serious,” she mocks, before jumping up and heading over to Felix. 

“Konstantin left me a mess to work with,” Dasha says to herself in Russian, and Villanelle barely catches it. 

— 

She’s sitting in the sun, waiting at the bus stop for Felix to show up, with sweat slowly forming on her brow. It’s unnaturally hot, which she usually does not mind. But today, right now, this heat… It reminds her of the heat amongst ruins. And _she_ feels ruined — bloodstained inside out. 

And suddenly, despite it being the middle of the day, she reaches for her phone. 

_Why didn’t you come with me?_

Delete. 

_You should have come with me._

Delete. 

_It’s your own fault._

Send. Pause. Not Delivered. 

“Who are you texting?” Felix is standing dangerously close to her, and her first instinct is to draw out her gun. But she doesn’t. 

“Shut up,” she says instead and stands up and walks out of the goddamn heat. “Follow me.” 

—

The next day, they sit on a park bench together. 

“The target works in that building,” Villanelle explains. “When he gets here, you will follow him inside.”

“How will I kill him?” he asks impatiently. 

“He has the same routine,” she says. He eyes her expectantly, until she elaborates, “He takes a shit as soon as he gets inside.”

“Oh.” 

“You will use this,” Villanelle shows him a knife. “Behind the ear. Clean and clinical.” He nods, excitedly, reaching out to grab it, but she immediately pulls it away. “Do not embarrass me or I will kill you.” 

“Okay,” he responds, shakily. “Don’t worry. I’m tough.” 

Villanelle scoffs, so he adds, “I have five older brothers.”

“Wow, five older brothers?” she mocks him, already considering just doing this assignment herself. 

“I beat the crap out of all of them,” he defends himself, but she rolls her eyes. 

“Anybody can fight. It takes a special person to kill.”

“I’ve killed loads,” he says a little too excitedly. 

“Bullshit.” Maybe she should just kill him now. 

“It’s true. There was this kid who bullied me at school,” he begins, but Villanelle is already bored. “I killed his family too. He beat up my boyfriend.” 

“You did all that for a boyfriend?” He’s more stupid than he looks. 

“Well I was in love,” he says innocently. She thinks of Rome again, and the words that echoed through the ruins. Her own words. And then, _You don’t understand what that is._

“After everything I did, he didn’t wanna know,” he continues, looking down at his hands. Villanelle thinks this boy might just cry, but is somehow not annoyed by it. “When you love somebody and they don’t love you back, it’s worse than…” 

She thinks of Paris now — of broken glass and scattered clothes and the way she moaned _God, I’m tired_ like Villanelle could help her rest her bones. And then, so suddenly, the sharpest pain in more places than one. 

“I don’t know what it’s worse than,” he continues. “But it’s…”

“Shit,” she completes his sentence for him. And again, _You don’t understand what that is._

— 

The target arrives just in time, so Felix follows him in, muttering to himself “Stick to the plan, stick to the plan.”

Meanwhile, Villanelle stays on the bench and waits. And she hates it. 

She should be in there instead. Her hands ache for blood now. She reaches behind her, and feels the gun tucked in her pants. Her fingers hover over the cold metal. It would be so much simpler. 

Instead she takes out her phone. 

_I did understand._

Send. Pause. Not Delivered. 

_I still understand._

Delete. 

— 

After fifteen long minutes, she groans and walks into the building and straight into the men’s restroom. 

There, on the tile floor is Felix, hunched over a bloody, twitching mess. 

“What happened to the plan?” she demands, completely exasperated, throwing her hands up in the air almost comically. 

“I improvised,” he admits, turning around to continue stabbing an already-dead man. 

Villanelle rolls her eyes, and doesn’t even think. She just reaches for her gun, aims it at the back of Felix’s head, and shoots. All in one swift motion. Clean and clinical. 

Except it’s not. 

Except this is — she very suddenly realizes — the very first time she’s used a gun since Rome. And the weight of it — of the gun, of the body hitting the ground, of the blood (so much blood) — is too reminiscent. 

Her chest tightens with a certain familiarity, and she wonders if she’s asleep. She must be asleep. The fluorescent lights flicker above her, but it’s the Roman sun she feels. 

She rushes out, leaving bodies behind. Too reminiscent. 

She leans her back onto the side of the building, letting herself topple down. She sits, pressing her back to warm brick, her knees up to her chest. She breathes heavily, in and out and in and out and — _fuck —_ why can’t she breathe? 

She looks down at the gun still in her shaking hands. Closing her eyes, she bangs her head back. _Stop shaking._ But she can’t. And there’s more, so suddenly. The sharpest pain in more places than one. And now, much hotter than the sun, are the tears streaming down her face. 

_Everything_ , Villanelle realizes, _always comes back to ruins._

In a blind haze, she drops her gun and switches it for a phone. 

_I’m sorry._

Delete. 

_I’m sorry._

Delete. 

“Fuck.”

_I’m sorry._

Send. Pause. Message Delivered at 9:08 AM. 


	2. marked me like a bloodstain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I changed the location of a Eve’s scar because it makes more sense for it to be on her lower abdomen. Basically, imagine Eve and Villanelle having matching scars (soulmate energy).
> 
> There’s some Dark!Eve in this one.
> 
> Please comment and leave kudos, if you feel so inclined :-)
> 
> Also please check out the podcast I co-host with my girlfriend, “Wear It Down: The Queer Killing Eve Podcast”. Listen wherever you get your podcasts, including Spotify and Apple  
> podcasts.

***

_ You drew stars around my scars  _

_ But now I’m bleeding  _

_ ‘Cause I knew you  _

_ Stepping on the last train  _

_ Marked me like a bloodstain  _

cardigan - taylor swift 

*** 

Eve has always been great at sleeping. An expert. A world-class champion. Niko used to make fun of how she could sleep through almost anything. And she did — through storms and snores and psychopaths. But not anymore. Not since… 

Her alarm goes off, but she’s been awake for hours. Still, she groans, as she rolls over and whacks the clock. The bright red LED light reads “5:00”. 

She thinks of Niko, and wonders how he’s sleeping —  _ if  _ he’s sleeping. She didn’t mean to leave like that. She didn’t mean for any of it to happen the way that it did. But it did. And now she’s here. And she hates the feeling of an empty bed, of a snore-less night, of a lonely life. But now she’s here. 

She thinks of her friends, of her coworkers, of her chicken. She thinks of… No, she doesn’t think about that. 

Forcing herself up to rest her back on the headboard, she runs her hands mindlessly through her hair. She reaches over to the nightstand and picks up her phone. Except it isn’t  _ her _ phone, is it? It’s government-issued by MI6, which means it’s surveillanced and clunky and doesn’t have Candy Crush on it. 

She sighs, before sending out: 

_ Still alive.  _

There’s a pause, and then an automated response. 

_ Please text back your personal security code within 60 seconds of receiving this message.  _

She does as she’s told, and then fumbles out of bed. 

— 

She takes way too long in the shower, breathing in the steam, with scalding water tainting her skin red. Her hands run slowly through her body, as if taking inventory — as if making sure she’s still all entirely there.

When her fingers reach her scar, she stops. 

She presses hesitantly against it, and a soft whimper escapes her lips. It still hurts. She presses harder, digging her fingers deep into the side of her abdomen,

letting out a breathy moan. She collapses back onto the wall, with the shower head directly above her. She feels the hot water on her face and gasps. And in the rush of water, she can almost hear it — the birds (she presses harder), the gunshot (harder), the voice (her other hand tangles in her hair and pulls),  _ her  _ voice… She turns off the shower. 

— 

“You’re late,” Kim says, right as Eve enters through the back door.  _ What a warm greeting. _ “Again.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Eve says, as she shoves her purse into a locker. “I’m sorry, I got caught up with, um,...” She gestures with her hands, as if the end of the sentence will materialize in front of her. 

“You’re lucky I’m friends with your mom.” Her train of thought is interrupted. She is relieved. “More importantly, you’re lucky Mr. Renshaw isn’t here yet. You know how he gets.” 

She goes on, as Eve puts on her apron and ties up her hair. 

“He had an affair with an Asian girl once and now thinks he’s qualified to own a Korean restaurant,” she scoffs. Eve nods, as she takes out supplies to start making dumplings. “She wasn’t even Korean.” 

Eve has heard this story before —  _ many _ times. She’s heard it from her mom, from the bus boys, from the waitresses. Her mind wanders, and her eyes find the Korean soap opera that plays on the small TV in the kitchen. 

She misses MI6. She misses Kenny, and Elena, and even a little bit of Carolyn. She misses… 

“What an arse,” she finds herself saying, interrupting her own thoughts. 

Kim laughs at how British she sounds, but agrees. “He is.”

— 

A couple shuffles into the restaurant, and Eve can hear them arguing from the kitchen. 

“I just don’t understand why you won’t let me see your phone,” one of them says. “If you have nothing to hide…”

She doesn’t register the end of the sentence. Her hands ache from the repetitive motion of dumpling-making, so she shakes them out and cleans them on her apron. 

The cooks whizz around her and she catches glimpses of the TV, still playing a Korean soap opera. On the screen is a man arguing loudly with what appears to be his mistress. Eve crosses her arms, leans back against a counter, and watches as the man waves his hands around dramatically. 

“I need you to trust me,” he says. 

And on the other side of the wall, sitting at a table less than ten feet away from Eve, “I don’t know who you are anymore.” 

She turns to face the small window that faces the lobby. She can’t see them. 

“You broke my heart,” the woman on the TV says. 

She rolls her eyes. At everything — at the couple in the lobby, at the waitresses that eye them huddled behind the cash register, at the people on the TV, at the cooks stealing glances at the screen. At herself, for being here in the middle of it all. 

Suddenly, she wants to scream. 

—

She sits on the sidewalk behind the restaurant, during her break. With a cigarette between her lips, she looks up at the blue sky. It’s sunny and cool and bright, and Eve enjoys this. It’s nothing like London. 

She reaches for her phone — the clunky one — and wonders how often MI6 actually checks on her. She wonders what would happen if she dumped it in a river or hid it behind a dumpster or smashed it with a rock. Would they care? Would they come find her? 

This was the compromise. Eve — who has known too much and has seen too much and has  _ done _ too much — gets to live her happy, normal American life under MI6 protection.. She chuckles to herself.  _ Protection _ . That’s how Carolyn had phrased it in the hospital, on the same day Eve was legally declared dead. 

She twirls the cigarette in between her fingers. 

She thinks of Niko, again. How did he hear the news? Who broke it to him? How did he react? Shot and left to die by a psychopath in Roman ruins. She could laugh at how ridiculous that sounds. But she doesn’t.

The Connecticut sun beating down on her does not feel like London, but it feels like somewhere else. The wind, which howls in between the buildings — a subpar donut shop, a Korean restaurant going out of business, and an empty RadioShack — it might as well be howling through the ruins. 

She breathes in deeply, closes her eyes, and pinches the bridge of her nose. And she thinks of Rome. She thinks of the streets, the sky, the birds, the blood, the blood, the blood. She thinks of  _ her _ . 

She doesn’t mean to, but she does. Her eyes open and stare up at the sky, and it hurts how bright it is.

“Fifteen minutes is up,” Kim announces, and Eve realizes how tight her chest feels. She looks up from where she’s sitting, and Kim must see how flushed she is. “Are you sick? There’s no time to feel sick. Come on.”

— 

Mr. Renshaw does show up eventually, barging through the door and talking way too loudly — as he tends to do. Eve rolls her eyes, but keeps her head down and her hands focused on dumplings. The kitchen chatter immediately ends. 

He walks around, eyeing everyone as they work, muttering this and that. He makes one of the cooks turn off the TV. 

“It’s a fucking mess in here,” he declares. It is a mess, Eve will admit to that. 

He walks slowly, station by station, as if trying to find something wrong with each person there. As he passes by, from the corner of her eye, Eve swears he looks exactly like Raymond. 

Except he’s not, of course.  _ Because Raymon is dead _ . And suddenly the air feels heavy, and her hands feel shaky.  _ Because I killed him.  _

When he comes up to Eve, he stops. 

“Eve,” Not-Raymond says, and she can smell his breath. She looks up at him, and then — ever so briefly — at the knives behind him. And she wonders if it would feel the same a second time. She wonders if it will be easier, if it will be better. She wonders if... She looks back down at her dumplings. 

“Yes?” she asks casually. 

“Stop.” He places his grubby hand on top of hers, and she holds back the urge to slap it away. 

“Yes?” she repeats, looking up at him, fully aware that they are being watched by the entire kitchen staff. 

“You should be at the front, greeting the customers,” he says. “Your English is better than anyone here and…” He hesitates. “Listen, why don’t we go into my office?” he whispers, leaning closer to her. 

The last thing Eve wants to do is go into Mr. Renshaw’s office, where it smells of sweat and old donuts, and where there aren’t any witnesses to his inappropriate behaviors — she eyes the knives again — or hers. 

“I appreciate it, Mr. Renshaw,” she lies, plastering a smile on her face, which seems to appease him. “But I really do prefer staying in the back. I’m terrible at talking to people. You wouldn’t want me up front.” 

He huffs, and takes his hand away — finally — and brings it up to rub his chin. 

“Well, if you change your mind…”

“You’ll be the first to know,” she says, and he nods, satisfied for now. 

— 

Her walk home is quiet and dull. 

She stops at a corner store, and fills her basket with wine and five different kinds of chips. As she waits in line, someone bumps into her from behind. She turns around and finds a teenage boy, eyes glued to his phone, with a basket full of Red Bull. He doesn’t look up at her. 

Eve scoffs, then says, “Seriously?”

The boy looks up from his phone, clearly confused. “Uh…?” 

“Uh…” she mocks him. “You just bumped into me, arsehole.” Her words come out fast and harsh and almost unintentionally. She doesn’t know where this anger is coming from. It doesn’t matter. 

“Whoa,” he says, raising up his hands, almost sarcastically. “Calm down, lady.” He looks back down at his phone, smiling at himself with fingers furiously typing. Eve peaks at his screen. 

_ r karens only white? bc i just ran into an asian lady who- _

“Oh, fuck you,” she hears herself say. Before the kid can defend himself, she feels a hand on her shoulder. It takes everything in her not to smack the wine-filled basket over the head of whoever is touching her. 

She turns and finds a man with a crooked name tag that reads “Peter”, and the words “Store Manager” underneath. 

“Ma’am,” Peter begins, but she cuts him off with a scoff. 

“I’m fine, it’s fine…” she says, wiggling out from under his touch and turning back around to face the register. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.  _ It’s fine, I’m fine _ , she repeats in her head. Images of bloody hotel hallways flicker behind her eyelids.  _ It’s fine, I’m fine.  _

“Fucking bitch,” she hears the boy mutter under his breath. 

Without even thinking, she whips around and slaps his phone out of his hand, which goes flying and smashes onto the ground. 

She does not get to buy her wine. 

— 

When she gets home, her mom is sitting in the living room, watching TV. Eve plops down next to her, wordlessly. 

“Kim called me,” her mom says, keeping her eyes on the screen. 

“Hmm,” is all she can say, as she braces herself for a scolding that will make her feel like she’s sixteen again. 

Instead, her mom turns to her and says, “Are you okay?” 

She’s not. 

“Of course,” she says. “Of course.” 

—

That night she lies in bed, already knowing she won’t get any sleep. 

She thinks and thinks and thinks and thinks — of Niko and whether he has moved on yet, of Kenny who was the last real friend she had, of Carolyn who hurt her and killed her and saved her. She thinks of Raymond, too, and the look on his face when she swung down the axe. She doesn’t want to think about him, but she can’t help it — not when it’s nearly one in the morning, and she’s so damn exhausted.  _ Tomorrow. I won’t think about it tomorrow. I’ll do better tomorrow.  _

For now, she lets herself think. She remembers it all: the weight of the axe, the splatter of blood, and the words “do it” over and over. And then a blur — soft hands, loud streets, dark passageways, and ruins. And being ruined. 

She thinks of Villanelle. She thinks of  _ This is what you wanted _ , of  _ I love you, _ of  _ You’re mine.  _ She thinks of the anger, the betrayal, the heartbreak — of how she should’ve been the one to aim the gun at Villanelle. 

She knows she shouldn’t think about her.  _ But tomorrow. I’ll do better tomorrow _ . For now, she allows herself this weakness — She thinks of her. She  _ remembers _ her (how can she forget?). Hospital restrooms, Russian cafés, Parisian apartments, and Roman ruins. 

Her hand wanders down, down, down. 

She touches her scar, softly this time. And it’s like she can feel Villanelle’s hands — so soft, like when they held her broken pieces together in the hotel lobby. 

But she groans.  _ Even this hurts.  _

She thinks of pain — of Bill, of Niko, of the blood on her hands. Suddenly, her chest feels hot. And, once again, she’s there: lying helplessly on the ground, as Villanelle walks triumphantly away. 

Aggravated and impulsive, she throws a pillow across the room. It hits her half-unpacked suitcase, which topples over. 

— 

She sneaks into the kitchen and finds a half-empty bottle of wine. It’s old and it tastes bad, but she drinks it anyway. 

And as she re-enters her room, bottle in hand, she sees it: her phone — her  _ actual  _ phone, which must have slipped out of her suitcase and onto the ground. 

She stops at her doorway and stares at it. She’d almost forgotten about it. Carolyn had told her to stop using it, as the Twelve would likely be tracking it. She rolls her eyes at the thought. If they wanted to find her, they would have already. She knows this. Phone or no phone. 

But when Carolyn had talked, she was still groggy with anesthesia, so she complied. 

She reaches down and grabs it. For a moment, she thinks about throwing it away — what’s the use of it now? But then she remembers the pictures she’s taken and saved: of friends, of Niko, of the life she can’t get back to. Her fingers itch, hovering over the power button. 

She knows what else is on her phone — screenshots of prison files and messages from unknown numbers that say “Hi Kill Commander”. She sighs, downing the last of the wine. 

—

She takes a late night walk. It’s chilly out, but the familiar buzz of wine keeps her warm. She walks aimlessly, her hands buried in her coat, each gripping onto a different phone. 

She eventually finds herself in East Wharf Beach. She walks along the shore, feeling the breeze of the waves. 

It’s almost three in the morning, which makes it almost nine in Rome. She shakes her head to herself. Of course she wouldn’t still be in Rome. 

She sighs and sits on rocks, watching the water. The wine is wearing off and she’s starting to feel colder. She pulls a cigarette out, but drops it in the wet sand. 

“Fuck,” she mutters to herself. And then, “Fuck it.” 

She pulls her phone out of her left pocket and holds down on the power button. 

— 

She’s immediately flooded by incoming messages: subscription emails, app notifications, and… Her eyes widen. A total of 28 texts from six unknown numbers. 

She scrolls through them, as they’re still coming in.

  
  


_ I’m glad you’re dead.  _

_ You are the worst thing to ever happen to me.  _

_ You ruined everything.  _

Her chest tightens and she forgets how to breathe, as her shaky fingers scroll through until she’s read them all at least twice. She puts the phone down next to her and closes her eyes. She puts her hands on her face and groans. 

She hates it. She hates this. She hates  _ her _ . 

The waves crash louder and louder against the rocks, as she gets up. Gripping the phone in her hand, she takes a deep breath. The cold air hurts her lungs, but there’s a fire inside her that can’t be put out. She throws her arm back, ready to swing it forward and send the phone flying into the water — ready to throw everything away, to drown it all, to let Eve Polastri sink to the bottom of the ocean, to make Villanelle die with her. 

But then — a  _ buzz _ in her hand. A new message, sent just now. Wherever Villanelle is, in whatever time zone she is, she is messaging her  _ now _ . 

_ I’m sorry _ . 

— 

She doesn’t throw the phone into the ocean, but she also doesn’t text back. Instead, she calls in sick the next day, and spends her morning staring at the message, knees up to her chest in the living room. 

_ I’m sorry _ . She reads it again, clutching a cup of tea. 

God, she’s so infuriated. She wants to text back. She wants to tell her how she’s the one who ruined everything, who took everything, who made her an absolute mess — and for what? Over what? 

She wants to tell her about every single time she’s imagined how she should have killed her instead of Raymond, and all the different ways she could have done it. 

She wants to tell her that her scar still hurts, that it always will — that when she thinks of Villanelle’s hands as her own it hurts even more. 

And it’s her fault — it’s all her fault. It’s her fault that she can’t sleep at night, that she can’t close her eyes without seeing blood, that she can’t go a day without thinking about her. 

She wants to text her, but she’s dead. It’s important that she stays dead. 

— 

Another  _ buzz _ comes through around midday, as Eve is rummaging through her fridge. She rushes over to the phone, as if the message would disappear if she doesn’t open it fast enough. 

_ Are you alive, Eve?  _

Her heart drops. She can practically see Villanelle’s cocky smile through the screen.

_ Are you missing me?  _

She feels heat rise from her chest, up her neck, to her face.

_ I really am sorry. I should’ve shot you in the head instead.  _

She laughs at this, because it’s funny — because it’s true. She should have shot her in the head instead, but she didn’t. And now, if she ever comes near her again, Eve is going to kill her — like she should have done when they first met. 

_ Fuck you _ , she types out without thinking, and hits send. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my social medias: 
> 
> Twitter — @nanamarfil  
> Tumblr —@savagesacrifices
> 
> podcast social medias:
> 
> Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram — @wearitdownpod


	3. aim for my heart (go for blood)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve and Villanelle text each other — chaos and angst ensues. NSFW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that y’all know the time zones of it all:   
> Eve is in Madison, Connecticut, USA   
> Villanelle is in Barcelona, Spain 
> 
> (Villanelle is 6 hours ahead of Eve)
> 
> Please enjoy, leave comments and kudos, and share with friends :-)

_ *** _

_ And I can go anywhere I want _

_ Anywhere I want, just not home _

_ And you can aim for my heart, go for blood _

_ But you would still miss me in your bones _

my tears ricochet - Taylor Swift 

***

_ Fuck you.  _

The message lights up her screen, and Villanelle draws in a quick breath.  _ Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.  _ She reads it over and over, smiling in disbelief.  _ Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you _ . 

She thinks back to the week following Rome, and how she’d typed in Eve’s name into Google and found her obituary. She thinks of how she stood at the back of her funeral, watching the Moustache weep over a closed casket. She thinks of how she visited Eve’s grave — just once — to make sure the whole thing was real. 

But it  _ wasn’t _ real. Eve is alive. Somewhere in the world, Eve Polastri is alive. She feels a tingle of emotion climb up her body, electrifying her. Eve is alive. The room begins to spin. 

She’s angry, she’s offended — she’s  _ impressed.  _

“Fuck you too,” she whispers, but her fingers type something different. 

_ Fuck me yourself, _ she sends. 

— 

Eve laughs at the audacity of the message she receives. It's a classic Villanelle move meant to rile her up, and she knows it

_ I’m going to kill you _ , she texts back matter-of-factly. 

Almost immediately, she gets a response. 

_ You’re shit at apologies. You know that?  _

Eve rolls her eyes, and as she’s starting to type out her next message, she stops. What is she doing? Why is she engaging? She’s supposed to be dead, and now an international assassin with a personal vendetta against her knows she’s alive. And she just threatened to kill her. 

“Shit,” she whispers to herself and puts the phone down. She covers her face with her hands. “Shit, shit,” she repeats to herself. 

— 

Villanelle stares expectantly at the three dots at the bottom of her screen, waiting for Eve’s message to come through. It doesn’t, and the three dots eventually vanish. She pouts. 

She’s sitting at the edge of her bed, and lets herself fall back. She turns the phone around and around in her hands, waiting for that familiar buzz. When it doesn’t come, she groans loudly. 

— 

She knows she should probably turn off the phone, and maybe actually throw it in the ocean this time. She knows she’s made herself ten times more traceable than she was before. She knows she should probably pack her bags, make up another lie to her mom, and move far away. She knows, she knows, she knows. 

— 

She wonders where she is. Not London — the Moustache would know (although he is not very smart). She rolls around in her bed, and looks up at her ceiling. Her hands feel antsy, the way they get when she wants to kill or fuck or both. 

She scrolls through their recent messages again. 

“Where are you, Eve?” she says out loud. 

— 

She decides to go to the corner store again, but when she gets there she sees the same teenage boy from the day before. He’s outside, leaning against the wall with an older boy. He whispers something to him, and they both turn to look at her. 

She rolls her eyes as she passes them. 

— 

She knows she could track her phone, if she really wanted to — and she  _ really _ wants to — but not without The Twelve knowing. She rolls around again, so that she’s on her stomach. She doesn’t want The Twelve to know. Not yet. 

_ I’m going to kill you _ , she re-reads the text, and wonders: how  _ would _ Eve kill her? 

She thinks of Paris — of a determined  _ I can _ , as the blade sunk deep into her skin. She thinks of the way Eve straddled her, marvelously curly hair cascading down between them. She thinks of the blood that stained the sheets, the shirt, the hands. 

She rolls onto her back again. Her hand trails down to her scar, pressing at it lightly. A phantom pain runs down her body, and she shudders. She presses again, and the ache spreads between her legs. 

She thinks of Raymond — a bloody mess in the middle of a hotel hallway. She thinks of the way Eve looked — feral and awake and beautiful — as she swung the axe down. She thinks of her dark eyes, her shaky hands, her breathless groans. 

A tiny whimper escapes her own lips, and she realizes that the more she thinks, the more she aches. 

So she thinks and thinks and thinks. 

— 

Thankfully, Peter — the touchy store manager — is nowhere to be seen, as Eve piles bottles upon bottles of wine into her basket. 

_ You’re shit at apologies. You know that?  _ She can almost hear her voice. Almost, but not quite. 

She sighs and wonders who will kill her first — The Twelve or MI6? She wonders if there’s a difference. 

As she turns the corner towards the chip aisle, she’s met by the two boys. They are both taller than her, and as she tries to circle around them, they move purposefully in front of her. 

“Oh, come on,” she groans. She doesn’t have time for this. Don’t they know she’s about to be murdered? 

“You owe Kyle a phone,” the larger one of them says, puffing out his chest. She furrows her brow, trying to figure out who the fuck Kyle is, until she sees a familiar face hiding behind him. She rolls her eyes. 

“I’m sure his daddy can afford a new one,” she says and makes another attempt to get past them. 

—

Her right hand travels down her body, her eyes close shut, and her back arches up ever so slightly.  _ Fuck _ . She bites her lips and lets a whimper out, as her hand slides down her unbuttoned pants. 

She’s immediately met with warmth and want and wetness. 

“Hmm,” she hums, as her fingers dip slightly, then come back up to find a familiar rhythm. 

Her left hand pulls her shirt and cups her breasts.  _ Fuck _ . She thinks of Paris, of Rome, of London, of everywhere, of everything. It doesn’t matter. She thinks of Eve. 

— 

Suddenly, there’s a hand on her shoulder that pushes her back until she’s pressed against the shelves. The wine bottles rattle behind her. 

“What the fuck?” she exclaims. The taller boy is standing uncomfortably close to her. His breath is shaky and his eyes are nervous. 

“You owe Kyle a phone,” he repeats, less confident than last time. It takes her a moment to realize that there’s a pocket knife pressed against her. 

She laughs. She can’t help it. 

“Wh… why are you laughing?” the boy asks, and she can feel the knife trembling against her. “Shut up.”

She laughs harder, throwing her head back. 

“Or what? You’re going to stab me?” she mocks.

— 

She imagines that it’s  _ her _ hand between her legs, that it’s  _ her _ mouth on her hard nipples. She pictures her hair — that  _ glorious  _ hair — falling down her shoulders, as she hovers over her trembling body. 

Her fingers dip down to the source of her ache, and her hips buck up to meet them.  _ Fuck.  _

— 

“Bitch, shut the fuck up,” Kyle says, coming up next to Eve. “Drake will fucking murder you.” 

“Oh,” she laughs. “Drake and Kyle. Thank you. You boys are making it so easy for me to tell the cops who you are. Why not throw in some last names? Social

Security numbers?” 

“Fucking stop talking,” Drake says, exasperated, pushing the knife harder against Eve. It hits her scar and she flinches, which seems to encourage him to push harder. 

— 

She thinks of Eve, she thinks of Eve, she thinks of Eve. 

— 

She thinks of Villanelle — of how she’s forever marked her, in more ways than one. She thinks of all the scars she’s left behind, inside and out. She thinks of the way Eve would have given this kid her wallet if he had pulled a knife on her a couple years ago.  _ You’ve tainted me _ , she thinks.  _ Scarred me, and now I don’t feel a single thing.  _

Except she does feel — she feels  _ everything _ , and she feels it all at once: the way it felt to push the knife into human flesh, the way it felt to _ let herself go once in a while _ , the way it felt to kill someone. 

She feels it all so much so that anything else —  _ everything _ else — is nothing in comparison. 

And she thinks back to  _ I feel nothing _ , to  _ I feel things when I’m with you,  _ to  _ I’m not with them when I’m with them.  _ And suddenly she understands. 

Looking up at this scared teenage boy, she doesn’t feel a single thing — yet she feels it all: the blood that rushes under her own skin, the restlessness in her hands, the fire bubbling up in her chest. 

And when she looks at him, all she sees is how it isn’t her. 

—

In a single, desperate motion, she slides inside and fills herself up completely.  _ Fuck.  _ Her eyes roll back, and her whimpers turn into moans. 

She can almost feel the weight of Eve on top of her, almost feel her mouth on her skin, almost feel her fingers drawing out that ache. Almost, almost, almost. 

“Oh, fuck,” she says out loud, as she curls her own fingers. The room fills with the sound of her moans, her breath, her heartbeat. 

She throws her head back, her left hand wandering down to meet her right. She grazes her clit slightly and whimpers at the thought of Eve’s tongue on her. 

“Fuck, yes,” she moans, as she starts to pick up speed. 

— 

She grips onto a bottle of wine from her basket, but doesn’t move or look away. 

“I swear I’ll do it,” he lies. 

“No, you won’t,” she says back, calmly. “You can’t.” 

— 

She knows she’s about to cum. She can feel it building inside her, as her pleasure turns to pain turns to pleasure. 

“Yes, yes,” she moans, her hair sticking to the sweat on her face. “Yes, Eve, please…” 

She’s done this so many times before — ever since the hospital restroom. She’s clutched at bedsheets and curled her toes and moaned out her name. She’s shuddered and clenched and melted for her. It’s always all for her. 

She’s so close, so close, so close — right at the edge, about to fall off — no, about to  _ throw _ herself off. 

But she hasn’t done this since... And now… she wants to.  _ Fuck.  _ She  _ needs  _ to. But now… 

“Please, Eve,” she begs again, so breathlessly — almost as soft as a whisper. Her hands move furiously with a mind of their own. 

She’s going to cum, she’s going to cum,  _ fuck, fuck, fuck... _

She stops. 

She stops and throws her hands up, letting them fall next to her. Her head pounds with the rush of blood, her chest burns with her heavy, ragged breaths.  _ Fuck _ . She’s aching, aching, aching. 

And all she wants is to be touched — to be fucked. All she wants is to collapse. 

But she can’t. She  _ won’t _ — because this can’t be hers anymore. It can’t be hers. 

Her eyes begin to water, as her hands form into fists at her side. She’s aching, aching, aching. 

—

She smashes the wine bottle across his face, making him stumble backwards onto the shelves. He lets his body fall to the ground, and he clutches his face in pain. Blood drips down onto his shirt, as he groans into his hands. 

“Holy fuck,” Kyle yells out, stepping backwards and keeping his distance away from her. 

Eve towers over Drake, watching him whimper and writhe in pain and fear. She’s still holding onto her end of the bottle, shattered and dripping in wine and blood. 

“Please, please,” he begs. “I’m sorry.” 

She kneels down in front of him. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I don’t know why I — they made me — and I didn’t think — I thought that you — I’m so sorry.” 

“You’re shit at apologies,” she says. “You know that?” 

—

She decides to leave the apartment. She walks along the street, her hands stuffed into her pockets, as she shivers from the cold. 

A couple passes by, giggling and stumbling drunkenly together. She sighs. 

She stops at a late night café and orders the sweetest thing on the menu, when there’s suddenly a buzz in her pocket. 

_ So are you.  _

She gives the message a tiny smile, but shoves the phone back in her pocket. She’s too tired and it’s too late and she’s still aching. All she wants right now is something disgustingly sweet. 

Another buzz. 

_ Can I call you?  _

— 

Eve paces nervously in her room.  _ I will call you,  _ was Villanelle’s last message, sent almost three hours ago. Did that mean later today? Did that mean eventually? Did that mean fuck off? 

She plops onto her bed and groans. She should have just called her herself. Or better yet — she shouldn’t have messaged her at all. She shouldn’t have…

Her phone rings.   
  


She jumps up and answers on the first ring,“Hello?” She brings her palm up to her face in embarrassment at how quickly she picked up.

“Hi, Eve.” Her accent is rich and thicker than she remembers, but it’s her.  _ God _ , it’s her. She sinks back down onto her bed. “Where are you?” she asks nonchalantly. 

“Where are  _ you? _ ” Eve retorts. Villanelle laughs softly at this, which makes Eve’s chest tighten. 

“Why?” she asks. “So you can come kill me?” Eve stays quiet, so Villanelle adds, “It’s more fun this way, Eve.” 

“Is this fun for you?” She leans back on the bed, and the way Villanelle says  _ Eve _ bounces in her head. 

“Very,” she says. “It’s fun for you, too.” It isn’t a question. 

There’s a pause. And then — 

“I almost got arrested today.” 

“Oh?” She sounds almost impressed, and Eve’s lips form the hint of a smile. 

“I smashed a wine bottle on a teenager’s head at the corner store,” she explains, to which Villanelle laughs. It’s a hearty laugh, and Eve feels like her chest might explode. 

“Did he deserve it?” she asks. 

“Oh, yes,” she finds herself laughing too. “He was a fucking asshole.” 

“And you got caught?” 

“Yes, but the store cameras caught him pulling the knife on me, so the cops —” she begins. 

“He pulled a knife on you?” she interrupts, and Eve can’t tell if it’s concern or disbelief in her voice. 

“Yes.”

“Hmm,” she says softly. “Maybe  _ I _ should have smashed you over the head with a wine bottle.” 

Eve doesn’t say anything, and neither does Villanelle. Instead, they sit quietly and listen to each other breathe, knowing that they’re going through the same thoughts at the same time — Paris, then London, then Rome. 

— 

Villanelle doesn’t mind not talking. It’s almost soothing to just sit here and listen to Eve exist. But she knows that the longer they stay like this, the harder it’ll be to speak. 

Eventually, Eve is the one to break the silence. 

“You really did kill me,” she says. Villanelle momentarily furrows her brow, confused. “You took everything from me.”

Villanelle scoffs. 

“And you promised me everything,” she reminds her. “Instead you gave me shit.” 

“Against my better judgment, against every single person’s advice,” Eve goes on, as if she didn’t even hear her. “I trusted you. And you ruined me.” 

“It’s what you wanted,” she says, softer than she intends. And she knows she’s said this before — she knows how this ends. 

“What I wanted?” she mocks, laughing sarcastically. Villanelle feels her heart ache, and she wants to tell her that it’s true, that she knows her better than she thinks, that this isn’t funny. 

“Eve…” she begins, but she isn’t sure what she wants to say. Suddenly, she feels small. 

“Do you know what I want now?” she goes on before Villanelle can complete her thought. “I want to go home. I want to go back. I want to sleep next to my husband. I want to be happy and normal.” There’s a pause, and then, “I want to forget about you.” 

“No, you don’t,” she says, and she means it to be firm and harsh. Instead it comes off almost as a plea, and she hates herself for that. 

“You ruined me,” Eve repeats. 

Villanelle feels heavy — weighed down and suffocating. Her cheeks burn from tears she didn’t realize she was shedding. She wipes her face with the back of her hand and closes her eyes. She hates this, she hates this, she hates this. 

“You ruined  _ me _ ,” she echoes back. 

The call goes back to silence, and then Eve hangs up. 

  
  



	4. still on that trapeze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve and Villanelle just want each other’s attention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to publish! Chapter 5 will be out soon :)

_ *** _

_ I’m still a believer, but I don’t know why _

_ I’ve never been a natural, all I do is try, try, try _

_ I’m still on that trapeze  _

_ I’m still trying everything to keep you looking at me _

mirrorball - Taylor Swift 

***

Villanelle sleeps restlessly, eventually startling awake and reaching for her gun. She aims at nothing, then flops back down onto the bed. This is getting exhausting.

_ You really did kill me _ , she remembers Eve’s voice so vividly that in her sleepy state she feels like she might actually be there — lying next to her, the way she did in Paris.  _ You really did kill me.  _

An ache shoots up from her scar to her heart. She clutches at her chest, and for a moment thinks she might be dying. 

— 

Eve doesn’t sleep at all. Instead, she scrolls through old pictures on her phone: of Niko, of her, of their friends, of their chicken. She smiles at the pictures of Kenny with Elena, and gets teary-eyed at the pictures of Bill. 

Eventually — like she knew she would — she gets to a picture of Victor Kedrin, bloody and lying on the ground in front of a sushi restaurant. She keeps scrolling, through pictures of crime scenes and autopsy reports — Fat Panda, Carla de Mann, Frank,... The list goes on. 

And then she sees her, staring blankly back at her in a prison uniform and a blue bandana. 

Her finger hovers over the screen, as she moves to scroll past it. But she doesn’t.

She looks back at her, and the words  _ You ruined me _ — both hers and Villanelle’s — play back in her mind.  _ You ruined me.  _

And she  _ does  _ feel ruined. She feels cut up into a million pieces, too shattered to ever be put back together. She feels her jagged edges sticking out, making it impossible to fit into any form of normalcy. 

Her phone screen goes dark from inactivity, and she finally has the strength to put it away.

—

Villanelle hasn’t gotten out of bed — nor does she plan to. She reaches for her phone, which reads 2:12 PM, and has 0 new messages. 

_ Fuck you,  _ she types. 

Delete. 

_ You deserved to be ruined.  _

Delete. 

She rolls deeper into her covers. 

—

Eve brings the phone to work with her, but she doesn’t know why. And instead of shoving it in her locker with the rest of her things, she keeps it in her pocket.

She works quietly, focusing on the cloud of chatter that surrounds her. 

“She hasn’t called me back.” 

She washes her hands and wipes them on her apron. 

“Pass me the knife next to you.”

She ties her hair back. 

“She said she’s talking to someone else.”

She gets out her supplies, and sets the ingredients neatly in front of her. 

“Don’t add too much of that.” 

She glances up at the clock — 8:12 AM. 

“She said she doesn’t like me.”

She starts chopping vegetables. 

“Now you’ve ruined it.” 

_ Fuck.  _ She winces in pain. 

“But I think I love her.”

Blood drips down her hand. 

— 

“Go away,” she tells Dasha, as she hides under the covers. “I can’t work right now.” 

“I am not here with an assignment,” Dasha says, pulling the covers off of Villanelle. 

“Hey!” she exclaims, pulling them back and burying herself in them. 

“I’m here to ask you what the fuck happened with Felix,” Dasha says, sitting at the edge of her bed. “He was good boy.” 

Villanelle groans from under the covers. 

“He wasn’t good enough for this job,” she explains. “Now leave me alone.” 

“What is the matter with you, Oksana?” she asks, pulling at the covers again. Villanelle grips on tightly.

“ _ Villanelle, _ ” she grumbles under the covers.

“Do you want your promotion or not?”

“I do,” she says sincerely, propping herself up on the bed and emerging from the covers. “But I am…” She eyes around the room, then —  _ You really did kill me —  _ she says “...in mourning.”

“And who are you mourning?”

“Felix,” she says, like it’s the most obvious answer. “He was a good boy.” 

—

She sits in a chair at the back, with her hand pressed up against her blood-stained apron. She leans her head back onto the wall, and watches her coworkers walk around her, continuing their meaningless chatter. 

From where she’s sitting, the tiny television is annoyingly loud. She pulls out her phone. 

Her fingers hover over her screen, as the messages from the previous night stare back at her. She feels her chest tighten with words that want to burst out.

“You need to go home,” Kim says suddenly. Eve looks up and sees an annoyed look on her coworker’s face. 

“I’m fine,” she lies. “I’m just waiting for the bleeding to stop.” Kim rolls her eyes. 

“Go home,” she repeats, but Eve doesn’t know where that is. 

— 

Finally out of bed, Villanelle eats pancake batter. 

“You need to get dressed,” Dasha urges, floating around her and picking up dirty laundry from the floor. 

“I  _ am _ dressed,” she argues, dramatically pointing at her silk robe. 

“And stop eating that,” she goes on. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

Villanelle scoops her spoon into the batter and brings it up to her mouth, defiantly. Dasha rolls her eyes and sits down in front of her, a look of disgust on her face. 

“Konstantin spoiled you too much,” she says. “You act like child.” 

Villanelle shrugs, and continues to stuff batter into her face. 

“I saw some of your kills, by the way,” Dasha says, and Villanelle perks up. 

“Which one was your favorite?” she asks. “The chubby one in the sex hospital?” She smiles, goofily, remembering how she gave Eve’s name at the front desk. 

“No,” Dasha says abruptly. “None of them.” Villanelle slumps down into her chair, annoyed. “You try too hard, Oksana.”

“ _ Villanelle _ ,” she corrects her, her voice a low growl. 

She could do without Dasha’s nitpicking and micromanaging. She could do without the criticism.  _ Eve liked my kills _ , she thinks to herself — and suddenly her scar and her chest and her everything is aching again. 

“But now,” Dasha is still talking, Villanelle realizes. “Now you do not try enough. You are getting lazy.” 

Villanelle groans, throwing her head back. She thinks of her most recent kills, and admits to herself that she may not be performing as well as she could be. She isn’t using hairpins or homemade perfumes or elevator doors. She huffs and crosses her arms, head still thrown back and looking at the ceiling. 

“It’s because of that woman,” Dasha continues. “Eve Pelostri.” 

“ _ Polastri _ ,” Villanelle mumbles under her breath. She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t argue further — because she’s right, it is because of Eve. It always is. 

Suddenly, she swings forward and leans towards Dasha, elbows on the table between them. 

“I killed her,” she says, sharply, staring into Dasha’s eyes. “I shot her and left her to die,” she continues. “I killed her,” she repeats, and she doesn’t quite know why she’s saying this. 

“This Eve woman,” Dasha goes on, and suddenly Villanelle realizes an anger bubbling inside her. She gets the urge to jump forward, onto Dasha. She could knock her off her chair, pin her to the ground, and tighten a grip around her neck. She could make her stop talking, stop talking, stop talking — just to keep Eve’s name out of her mouth. 

Instead, Villanelle says, “She’s dead,” but her voice cracks and her eyes sting. 

“She made you weak,” Dasha says. “I know it, Konstantin knew it.” She pauses, and then, “They know it, too.” 

Villanelle slumps back in her chair, and looks away. She wants to tell Dasha that it isn’t true — that Eve made her stronger, smarter, and better. She did her best kills, knowing Eve was watching her. But she doesn’t say this. She doesn’t say anything at all. 

“If you want your promotion,” Dasha goes on. “Prove to them you are strong again.” She makes a fist, for emphasis. “Prove you are the assassin that I trained you to be.”

—

The bleeding eventually stops, and she continues working with a bandaged hand. It hurts to move it a certain way, but it doesn’t slow her down. She’s so focused on the repetitive — slightly painful — motion of dumpling-making, that she doesn’t notice Mr. Renshaw hovering over her. 

“What happened to you?” he asks, startling her. 

“Oh,” she laughs. “Nothing. I just — uh, slip of the hand.” 

“Hmm,” he gruffs. And then, “Come into my office.” He walks away, expecting her to follow, which she reluctantly does. 

—

Villanelle sits at the table on her balcony, her legs swung up onto the railing. She watches passerbys below her, and twirls a postcard in her hand. Dasha is long gone —  _ thank God  _ — but her words still weigh heavy on Villanelle. She sighs and pulls out her phone. 

_ Do you ever miss it?  _

Delete. 

_ Do you ever miss me?  _

Delete. 

She puts the phone down and looks at the postcard. It reads: “Recuerdo de Madrid” and has a picture of a matador. She stares at it for a long moment, before a reckless and dangerous idea brings a smile to her face. 

— 

Eve’s phone vibrates in her pocket, and her heart swells in excitement and fear and anger at feeling anything at all. But she doesn’t check it. 

Instead, she sits in front of Mr. Renshaw and watches as he digs his grubby hands into a bowl of chocolates. The chocolates — all unwrapped — have melted into an amorphous mass inside the bowl. Mr. Renshaw grunts as he pulls pieces off the mass, staining his hands brown.

Eve stares in disgust, as he licks his fingers clean. 

“You wanted to talk to me?” she asks, hoping she can get this over with as quickly as possible. 

“Yes,” he says, leaning forward onto his desk. “I’ve made up my mind. I am moving you to the front.”

“What? But I — ” She gets interrupted by him lifting up a chocolate-covered sausage of a finger. 

“Not a question, Eve,” he says. She sighs, in defeat, and buries her injured hand in her pocket. She holds onto her phone. “Now go home. You’re scaring everybody with that bloody apron.”

—

Villanelle twirls a bloody piano tuner in her hands, eyes wide and bright. The hum of the piano keys is still ringing in her ears from when the woman collapsed on top of it. 

In her pocket, her phone vibrates, but before she’s able to reach for it, she hears a baby. 

— 

Outside of the restaurant, with a cigarette in her mouth, she reads the message from Villanelle:

_ Recuerdo de Madrid.  _

She walks home, occasionally looking back down at the mysterious message and trying to make sense of it. 

She passes the corner store, where teenage boys turn away from her. She considers going in, just for the hell of it — just to make them squirm. But she doesn’t. 

She pulls out her phone again, types, and sends: 

_ Are you in Madrid?  _

_ — _

Dasha is satisfied with her kill, so they go out that evening — after properly disposing of the child that Villanelle was trying to keep as a pet. 

“If you keep this up, they will want to meet you soon,” Dasha says, and Villanelle’s eyes widen. 

“Soon I will be your boss,” she says, smiling through a mouthful of pasta. She wonders if Eve will be impressed — with the kill, with the promotion,.. 

“Ha!” Dasha laughs. “One thing at a time, Oksana.” 

__

She never got a text back from Villanelle, so now Eve sits with her mom in the living room, the TV on a little too loudly. She keeps a tight grip on the phone in her hand, and tries to focus on the screen in front of them. 

“Why doesn’t he shoot him?” she asks mid-way through a Korean soap opera. “He talks too much. Just do it.” 

“This is why I never watch these things with you,” her mom complains. “You always root for the bad guys.”

“I’m just saying, if he has the chance then and there, why doesn’t he take it? He just talks and talks,” she says. “It’s not realistic.”

“If he did, the show would be over too soon,” her mom explains. “And that wouldn’t be fun.”

“No,” she concedes. “That wouldn’t be fun.” 

After another half hour, Eve makes her way up the stairs and to her bedroom. She plops onto her bed and pulls out her laptop. Instinctively, she searches “Madrid, Spain murder” — and variations thereof. She scrolls through various pages, pictures, articles, and videos. 

Suddenly, she sees it. Two female victims — death by piano tuner — and a kidnapped child who was later found in a bin. She lifts her hand to her lips, as if covering up a gasp, but finds that she is smiling. 

— 

When Villanelle rolls out of bed, she’s met with a message from Eve:

_ Piano tuner? Really?  _

She smiles and feels her face flush. She types back  _ Good job  _ with a winky face emoji, then hits send. 

Almost immediately, her phone begins to ring. 

“Hello,” she answers. When there’s no response, she sighs, and adds, “Eve?”

“You’re in Madrid then?” she asks. “You killed those two people, kidnapped a  _ child _ .”

“The baby is fine,” she argues. “I heard it’s back with its father.”

“I know, but still…” She sounds annoyed and frustrated, which annoys and frustrates Villanelle. 

“Didn’t you like it?” She asks, and she wants to add  _ I did it all for you _ , but she doesn’t. 

“Did I  _ like  _ it?” she scoffs, and laughs in disbelief. “Villanelle, you murdered someone.” 

She knows she should be upset — offended even — but her mind is hooked on the way Eve says her name. 

“I could tell MI6, you know?” she continues. “They could find you.”

“Are you going to?” 

There’s a long pause, and Villanelle worries that she’ll hang up, but finally Eve speaks. 

“No,” she says softly. Villanelle smirks to herself, and the flush returns to her face. 

— 

Eve is at work, half-listening to Christy go over waitressing 101, when she feels her phone vibrate. Her hands itch to take it out and read the new message, but she pretends to focus on Christy’s words. As they walk around the lobby, Eve’s chest tingles in excitement, and her hand slips into her pocket. Christy turns around to yell something at a bus-boy, and Eve takes the opportunity to peek at her phone. 

_ Greetings from Liverpool  _

—

_ Saludos de Barcelona  _

_ Paris, je t’aime  _

_ Love from Amsterdam  _

_ Saluti da Verona  _

This goes on for a while: Villanelle texts, Villanelle kills, Eve figures it out, and they talk. 

Sometimes their conversations are short, consisting of a few text messages. Sometimes Eve calls her — those are her favorite. 

Tonight, her phone rings and she answers cheerfully, “Why hello, Eve.” 

“Did you mean to pay homage to Dasha Duzran?” she asks immediately. 

“What?” 

“The spice over her face,” she explains. “It’s very similar to a kill in a Moscow gym in 1974. It was never solved, but the gymnast Dasha Duzran was the main suspect.” 

“I love when you talk dirty to me,” she teases, and smiles when she hears Eve half-scoff, half-chuckle on the other side of the line. “You know a lot about assassins, huh?”

“ _ Female _ assassins,” she corrects her. 

“Hmm,” Villanelle thinks, then asks, “But I am your favorite?” 

“You are the most annoying,” she says, which Villanelle takes to mean a yes. 

“You are getting very good at this,” she says, hoping to drag the conversation on and on and on and on — forever, if she can. “I need to get more creative.”

“No,” Eve says abruptly. “No more.” Villanelle furrows her brow, confused because they were having such a delightful time. 

“No more?”

“No,” she repeats. “This has to stop.”

“Why?” she asks, and her chest hurts. 

“Because I can’t spend all day waiting for you to send me some cryptic ass message,” she explains. “I can’t chase you around Europe from my computer. What’s the point?” 

“Eve,” she begins, but isn’t sure what she wants to say. 

“You shot me, Villanelle,” she exclaims. “You could have killed me.”

“I think about that all the time,” she says, echoing Eve’s words from so many months ago. “I—”

“No, no,” she interrupts. “You said you wish you’d killed me.”

Villanelle stays silent, and she feels like the room is spinning. The only thing keeping her tethered down is the heaviness in her chest. 

—

Eve hangs up. She turns off her phone and shoves it in her bag. 

She decides to take a walk to clear her head, but ends up taking the route to work. Using the key Christy gave her for the nights she had to close late, she slips inside the restaurant. She rummages through the kitchen, looking for something she can eat. She finds ice cream in the walk-in freezer. 

As she shovels spoonfuls of vanilla ice cream into her mouth, she thinks of Villanelle. 

—

She groans loudly, throwing the phone across the room. It hits the wall and falls to the ground — all still in one piece. 

Flopping onto the bed, she stares at the ceiling. She hates this feeling — this ache, this heaviness, this regret, this heartbreak. She thinks back to Rome and to the moment she pulled the trigger. How different would things be now if she hadn’t? 

_ You said you wish you’d killed me _ , she hears Eve voice bounce in her head.  _ You really did kill me.  _

—

“What are you doing here?” Mr. Renshaw asks, startling Eve. 

“Oh, fuck,” she says. “Mr. Renshaw, I…”

“It’s 4th of July weekend,” he says. “We’re closed until…” His eyes drop down to the half eaten gallon of ice cream. “Are you stealing from me, Eve?”

“I-I’m so sorry,” she says. “I’ve just been going through a lot and I… I’m sorry, I’ll pay you back for it. I’m…”

He shakes his head and walks closer to Eve, reaching out to take the spoon from her hand. His fingers feel clammy against her skin, as the utensil is transferred to him. He brings the spoon to his lips and licks it clean. Suddenly, Eve is very aware of how close he is standing to her. 

“I’m gonna go now,” she says, stepping away. 

He grunts and reaches out to grab her hand, pulling her back in. 

“Stay,” he says, and Eve can smell liquor on his breath. 

— 

She goes shopping and finds a vibrantly blue dress that makes her look gorgeous. She wears it out of the store, and counts all the heads that turn to look at her. Surprisingly, it does not make her feel any better. 

She sits outside a café and eats a tiramisu cake, as passerbys nod, smile, or wink at her. She sighs, and thinks of all the people who would be willing to go home with her. This doesn’t make her feel better either. 

The phone in her pocket never vibrates. 

At the end of her very uneventful, very gloomy day, she goes home alone. 

— 

Eve stumbles back, and the sound of pots and pans clattering on the floor makes her jump.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” she mutters to herself, running her hands through her hair as she paces the kitchen. “Oh fuck, oh fuck.” 

Suddenly, she remembers her purse, and lunges toward it, shakily pulling out her phone and turning it on. 

— 

It’s the middle of the night when an incessant vibration wakes her up. She rolls over and reaches out for her phone. She squints at the screen and sees an incoming call. 

“Hi,” she answers, groggily, sitting up and rubbing at her eyes. There’s no response. “Eve?”

“You said you wished you killed me,” she says. 

Villanelle groans. “This again?” 

“Did you mean it? I mean, properly killed me. Six feet under, worms eating at my brain.” Her voice is shaky and her words are rushed. 

“Fuck, Eve,” she says. “You are so morbid.” 

“Did you mean it?” There’s a certain desperation in her voice that Villanelle has never heard before. 

She sighs, covering her eyes with her free hand. She feels her chest burning up, as she says, “Of course not, Eve.”

“Okay, okay…” Eve says. “Good. That’s good.” There’s a pause, and then, “I need your help. I-I… I just killed someone.”

  
  
  



	5. a marvelous time (ruining everything)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A helping hand *eyes emoji*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I posted chapter 4 yesterday, but I made y’all wait so long so y’all can have chapter 5 super early lol. 
> 
> This was super fun and different to write. I hope y’all like it! 
> 
> Chapter 6 is in the works :-)

***

_ Who knows if I never showed up, what could’ve been  _

_ There goes the loudest woman this town has ever seen _

_ I had a marvelous time ruining everything  _

the last great american dynasty - Taylor Swift

***

“Where are you?” she asks, as she hops out of bed. She opens her closet and pulls out a suitcase. “Eve?”

“What?” Her voice sounds distant, and Villanelle remembers how useless Eve can be post-murder. 

“Where are you?” she repeats, shoving clothes into her suitcase. 

“I’m in Connecticut,” she says. “Madison, Connecticut.”

Villanelle stops abruptly, and asks incredulously, “You’re in the States?”

“Yeah, I, uh, came to live with my mom,” Eve explains. “After, uh, everything.”

“Right,” she says. “Well, then it’s going to take me a while to get there, but…”

“You’re coming here?” she asks, surprised. 

“Yes, Eve,” she says. “I’m going to help you.” 

— 

Eve does everything Villanelle says — drag the body to the walk-in freezer, change her clothes, avoid CCTV, go home, and wait. 

She’s sitting in her bathtub, letting herself sink deeper and deeper into the now-cold water. She thinks of Mr. Renshaw, lying lifeless in the freezer, and suddenly she thinks she might be sick. 

Her phone buzzes with a new message: 

_ Be there at 2 AM. Your time.  _

Her chest fills with anxiety at having to wait over 18 hours to see her. And for what? She wonders if calling Villanelle will lead to anything more than her own death. She sinks deeper into the water until she’s fully submerged. 

—

Villanelle looks out the window of the plane, staring down at the ocean below her. She wonders if Eve is all right, as she thinks back to how shaken she’d been in Rome after Raymond. She taps her fingers anxiously on the tray in front of her, wishing she could make the plane fly faster. 

— 

_ I just landed.  _

Eve’s heart stops in her chest as she reads the three words on her screen. Shortly after, another message:

_ Send me your address _ . 

“What the fuck am I doing?” she mutters to herself as she sends a highly-skilled, psychopathic assassin her exact location. 

_ See you soon.  _

_ —  _

It’s almost four in the morning when Villanelle steps out of the cab and walks up Eve’s front porch. She takes a deep breath and reaches out to ring the doorbell. Just before her finger touches the button, the front door swings open. 

In front of her stands Eve Polastri, with hair a gorgeous mess, in jeans and a cardigan. The light from within the house shines through, creating a halo around her silhouette. Villanelle feels the heaviness in her chest turn into light, and she finds herself smiling. 

“Hi, Eve,” she says, and the words come out softer than she expected them to. 

— 

Villanelle stands in front of her, in a black tracksuit, white shoes, and a black cap with a blonde ponytail sticking out the back. She’s taller than she remembered, but everything else — her eyes, her lips, her smile — is exactly the same. She feels as though she’s been catapulted back to England, to Germany, to Russia, to Rome — back to Villanelle. 

She steps back into the house, letting her walk in. As she passes her, she catches the intoxicating aroma of  _ La Villanelle _ . She closes her eyes and turns away, closing the door behind them. 

“This is a nice house,” Villanelle says, eyeing around. She walks up towards an array of picture frames and picks one up. “You were a cute baby.” 

“Thank you,” is the only thing she can think to say, as she stands — still at the doorway — with her hands nervously fidgeting. 

Villanelle turns to look at her, and Eve hates how much she’s missed her. 

“Are you okay, Eve?” The question carries a level of sincerity that she wasn’t expecting. Eve doesn’t answer, so Villanelle says, “Show me where you did it.”

— 

They walk together towards the scene of the crime, Villanelle occasionally looking over at Eve and appreciating the way the moonlight shines perfectly on her face. Her hands are buried in her pockets, and she does a little skip every now and then, splashing in puddles left behind from a recent rain. 

Eve is much more serious, walking always a few steps ahead and nervously looking around her. 

“Nobody is going to see us,” Villanelle reassures her. “It’s the middle of the night. The town is dead.” She’s not wrong. 

“I just want to get this over with,” Eve says. She must realize how harsh her words sound, because there’s a brief pause, and then, “Thank you for coming.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” Villanelle asks, picking up her pace so she is next to Eve. 

“I don’t know,” she says sincerely. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

“You were thinking ‘Hey I just killed someone. I’m going to call my favorite female assassin to help me dispose of a body’,” she says in a fake American accent. “‘And then I’ll buy her dinner because she was just on an 18 hour flight.’”

Eve rolls her eyes and says, “I never said you were my favorite.” 

— 

“Jesus, Eve,” she says as soon as she walks into the freezer. Her eyes light up the way they did in Rome, and Eve has to turn away. “What did you do?”

Eve pretends to ignore the excitement in her voice and says, “He was drunk and tried to kiss me. When I pushed him off, he just… He wouldn’t back off. So I…”

“So you stabbed him,” she completes her thought.

Eve nods, then says, “Fourteen times.”

“ _ Fourteen? _ ” She’s so impressed. 

“I…” She eyes the frozen body. “I couldn’t… stop.” 

Villanelle’s eyes widen, her pupils dilate, and a wicked smile spreads across her lips. Eve hates how much she loves this. 

“Did you like it?” she asks, which is a question Eve wasn’t expecting. 

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she says, “What are we going to do?”

— 

Disposing of a body is not Villanelle’s area of expertise. Usually, this is the part that The Twelve handles, while she is out celebrating the kill with a bowl of ice cream or a woman in her bed — whichever she happens to be in the mood for. Still, she has a general idea of how to go about it: leave no evidence behind, dispose of the murder weapon, yada yada. 

The process is tiresome and long, but both women go through the motions without a moment of rest. The only sounds they make are grunts and heavy breaths, as they pull out Mr. Renshaw’s body and hack it down to manageable slices. At certain instances, Villanelle is sure Eve is going to puke, but she holds it together surprisingly well. 

By seven o’clock that morning, they are both covered in sweat and splashes of blood. Before them, in twenty different garbage bags lie the remains of Mr. Renshaw. 

They collapse onto the floor next to one another, backs against the freezer door. The lights flicker above them, and Villanelle shifts her right foot slightly so that it touches Eve’s. Eve doesn’t seem to notice, but looks up at her with inquisitive eyes. Her hair is stuck to her face with sweat, and she looks flushed and exhausted. 

Villanelle feels a tug in her chest, as her eyes move to take her all in. She wants to lean in, to touch her face, to… 

“Now what?” Eve asks. 

“We scatter them across different dumpsters throughout the town, and —”

“No,” Eve says, shaking her head aggressively. “The vultures will smell the rotting flesh and give us away.”

“Hmm,” Villanelle thinks. 

“We need to drive to another town. Flush it down a gas station loo,” she thinks aloud. “Maybe several gas stations.”

“Flush it?” 

Eve nods towards the heavy-duty blender atop the counter in front of them, and the assassin smiles in excitement. 

“You sure you’ve never done this before?” she teases. 

“Shut up,” Eve says, but a smile creeps up at the corner of her lips. “I’ve just thought about it before… a lot.”

“Oh?” She’s so amused. “And you made me come all the way here.” 

“You’re right,” she jokes. “I could have just done all of this myself.” It’s a strange feeling to be joking with Villanelle, but the situation in general has a certain sense of absurdity altogether anyway.

“Okay,” Villanelle agrees, jumping to her feet. She takes off her black tracksuit jacket, revealing a thin white t-shirt. Eve thinks back to her conversation with Elena about tits. She feels herself blush. “I will see you later.” 

“What? Where are you going?” Eve panics, which Villanelle can’t help but find endearing. “It was a joke. I can’t do this alone. I’m not —”

“I’m going to rent us a car,” she explains. “Just keep going.” She gestures vaguely towards the sacs of thawing flesh. “I’ll come pick you up and we can drive wherever you want to flush it away.” 

“ _ I _ can rent us a car,” Eve suggests, but Villanelle shakes her head. 

“It’s a small town, Eve,” she says. “People will ask questions if you suddenly rent a car for half a day.”

“But you’re not from around here,” Eve adds. 

“Exactly,” she winks. “Perfectly reasonable for me to need some way to get around.” 

“Do you even have an ID?” Eve asks. 

Villanelle shrugs. “Stop worrying so much. I’ll be back soon.” 

— 

It’s almost ten o’clock when Villanelle drives up in a red convertible and honks twice. The back door of the restaurant opens and Eve pokes her head out. Catching a glance of the car, she rolls her eyes and shakes her head. 

“Couldn’t you get anything more lowkey?” she asks in a harsh whisper, as she hauls a portable cooler onto the tiny back seat. Villanelle shrugs. 

“I liked this one,” she says innocently. “And why are you whispering?” 

“I don’t know,” Eve says. “In case someone hears us?”

“Eve, there’s nobody here,” she points out. “Come on, get in. We need to make some stops.” 

“Some  _ stops _ ?” she asks as she gets into the passenger side. “What errands do you need to run that are so much more important than disposing of a body right now?”

“We need to stop by my hotel, so I can pick some things up,” she says, driving away from the restaurant. “And you should probably change clothes. You’re covered in evidence.” 

Eve looks down at her blood-spattered cardigan and groans. She’s right. 

“What do you need to get from your hotel?” she asks, trying the block out the sloshing sound that’s coming from the back seat each time they make a turn. 

“Clothes,” she says. “I’m not making the drive back today. I need some sleep.” 

“And what about me?” Eve asks. “Am I supposed to spend the night with you?” 

Villanelle’s eyes widen and she smirks at her choice of words. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Eve says. 

“You can take the car back if you want,” Villanelle says. “But… you don’t have to.” Her eyes flicker back and forth between the road and Eve, who turns away and doesn’t say anything more. 

— 

Eve runs into the house and quickly packs a small bag with essentials — clothes, shoes, underwear, toothbrush. She strips off her blood-stained clothes and shoves them in a black garbage bag and shoves it in the bag with the rest of her things. She puts on a pair of jeans and a simple navy blue shirt with a coat over it. 

Before she heads out, she scribbles out a note and leaves it on the kitchen counter:

_ Going out for 4th of July. Don’t wait up. Love you.  _

She rushes out and feels relieved to see Villanelle waiting patiently for her. Part of her wants to pretend that this is her driving away in a getaway car — away from her life, from the mundane, from the normal. Part of her wants to believe that she could lead this criminal, fugitive life á la Bonnie and Clyde. 

Another part — the more reasonable part — knows that this isn’t right. That she shouldn’t be thrilled to go on a road trip with an international assassin to dispose of the body of a man she just murdered. And that’s the part that wins her over — so she slumps in her seat and watches the trees zoom past, as Villanelle drives to her hotel. 

— 

When Villanelle comes out the hotel doors, Eve is surprised to find that she has also changed clothes. She’s now wearing a bright pair of blue pants, the same white t-shirt, dark sunglasses, and a red bandana around her neck. 

“You look…” She doesn’t know what to say — beautiful, gorgeous, breathtaking,... 

“American?” Villanelle says. “Dressing for the occasion.” 

She hops into the car, throwing her own bag onto the back seat. 

“I didn’t peg you as an American fan,” Eve half-laughs. 

“I’m a fan of hot dogs and fireworks,” she says. “And you still owe me dinner.”

— 

Villanelle keeps switching through radio stations as they drive, until Eve finally reaches out to physically stop her.

“American radio stations are shit,” Eve says, trying not to think about the fact that this is the first time she’s touched Villanelle in months. “I wouldn’t even bother.”

“Hmm,” Villanelle says, but she doesn’t move her hand away until Eve does. “Everything in America is shit.”

“Except hot dogs and fireworks?” Eve asks, surprising herself at how easily she can slip into a casual conversation. 

“Except hot dogs and fireworks and you,” Villanelle says, and Eve feels a heat rise from her chest up to her cheeks. She turns away. 

“So you don’t hate me?” Eve asks, as low as a whisper, half-hoping Villanelle won’t even hear her. But she does. 

“Hate you?” Villanelle laughs. “I came all the way here for you, Eve. I don’t hate you.”

“And you also tried to kill me,” she reminds her, and Villanelle tenses up. For a moment, Eve regrets saying anything at all. 

“Do you hate me?” Villanelle asks, but her eyes stay on the road. 

Eve thinks for a moment, then says, “I don’t know.” 

— 

They stop at a gas station on the way, and Eve pretends to use the restroom, while Villanelle grabs some snacks. 

“What is this?” she asks, picking up a bag of sweets. 

“Uh… candy corn?” The cashier replies. Villanelle furrows her brow and brings the bag closer to her face. “We got them in early this year ‘cause so many people like them.”

“Hmm,” she thinks, then buys seven bags. 

— 

“I can’t believe you let me do that,” Villanelle says, popping another candy corn into her mouth. She chews it for two seconds, makes a face, spits it out onto the road, then reaches for another. Eve swats her hand away from the bag. 

“Stop trying to eat them!” she exclaims. “They’re not going to stop being disgusting. Besides, I was too busy flushing someone down a toilet to keep you from buying something weird.” 

“How much did you flush?” 

“About a quarter of it,” she says. “We’re gonna need to make some more stops. But this time I get to pick the snacks.” She snatches the bag away from Villanelle and throws the whole thing out the window. 

Villanelle pouts, but remembers she still has six more bags hidden in the back. 

— 

The second gas station they stop at is much more crowded than the last, but Villanelle doesn’t seem fazed by it. She nonchalantly heads to the restroom, as Eve eyes some gummies. 

When Villanelle comes out, Eve is waiting in the car. 

“How did it go?” she asks, offering gummies to Villanelle, who immediately takes a handful. 

She shrugs, looking at the clock. “One more stop? We need to make it there by six.” 

“Why six?” 

“There’s a 4th of July festival,” she explains. “I’m serious about those hot dogs.” 

— 

The third and last gas station is small and practically empty, save for the cashier. Villanelle and Eve carry the portable cooler in together. 

“Excuse me, sir,” Villanelle fakes an American accent. “We’re just going to dump out some nasty fish water we have in here. We’ll be right out.” 

The man nods, as they pass him by. 

“Fish water?” Eve asks, once they’re inside the stall. 

“Well, I don’t know,” Villanelle says. “Americans fish, right?”

“Whatever, just help me pour this out.”

They lift it up together and the foul-smelling red liquid splashes into the toilet. 

“God, this is disgusting,” Eve says, before pulling on the toilet handle. The last of Mr. Renshaw flushes down, never to be seen again. 

“Yeah, but look at us,” Villanelle smiles, bumping her shoulder against Eve’s. “Disposing of a body together. How romantic.” She wiggles her eyebrows, making Eve roll her eyes. 

Part of her has to admit that, in a twisted and deranged way, this  _ is _ romantic. And if it wasn’t for the smell of urine that engulfs them, perhaps Eve would drag this moment on longer. 

She looks up and meets Villanelle’s gaze. Suddenly, she becomes aware of how close they are — only inches away, cramped in a small restroom stall. Villanelle’s eyes fall to Eve’s lips, and the tongue that involuntarily sticks out to graze them. They both breathe in slowly, wanting to say something, but not knowing what that is. 

Villanelle’s eyes grow darker, and Eve swallows hard, the drumming of her heart in her ears. Once again, she feels that heat from her chest, climbing up, up, up, flushing her face. But this time, it also moves down to her belly, to her thighs, to… 

Suddenly, Villanelle’s hands are in her hair and her body is pressed up against her and her lips —  _ oh God, her lips  _ — are on her mouth. By instinct, Eve lets her in, parting her lips and letting Villanelle’s tongue meet hers. She tastes of gummy bears and candy corn and something else — something dark and new and delicious. 

“Hmmph,” Eve whimpers as Villanelle’s hands move from her hair to her hips, pulling her closer. She feels like she’s been set on fire. 

“Fuck,” Villanelle whispers into her mouth. “You taste like… you taste like—”

Someone opens the door and Eve immediately pushes her off and steps out of the stall, leaving Villanelle breathless and aching and aching and aching. 

— 

They drive the rest of the way in silence, and all Eve can think about is the feeling of Villanelle’s body against hers and the throbbing between her legs. She runs her hands through her hair, tying it back in a ponytail. 

“Can you turn on the a/c?” she asks, breaking the silence. 

Villanelle does as she’s told, then asks, “Are you hot?” but Eve doesn’t respond. 

When they get to the hotel, Villanelle grabs both of their bags and heads inside first. Eve follows closely behind, trying to keep her eyes on anything but Villanelle. She fails. 

Once inside, Villanelle asks, “Are you staying tonight or are you driving home?” 

“I-I don’t know yet,” she says nervously. 

“I’ll get you a room just in case.”

Eve waits in the hotel lobby, as Villanelle speaks with the hostess in another fake American accent. She pretends not to find it attractive the way she can slip into a persona so effortlessly. 

“There is only one room left,” Villanelle announces. “I guess this festival is a big deal.”

“How many beds?” Eve asks. 

“Two,” she says and Eve sighs in relief. 

—

Once in the room, Villanelle takes a shower first, leaving the door wide open. The steam flows out, and Eve catches glimpses of her body, covered in soap and dripping in water. She forces herself to turn away. 

She walks over the window and watches drunk teenagers make their way to the festival. She can’t think of the last time she’s celebrated the 4th of July. 

As she waits for Villanelle to finish, she plops down onto one of the beds and pulls out her phone. In a moment of weakness, she decides to re-download Candy Crush. 

— 

Villanelle lets the hot water hit her face, which burns slightly. She runs her hands through her soapy hair, and leans back to rinse it. The steam rises and fogs up the glass walls of the shower — the only real barrier between her and Eve. She catches her glancing a few times, before completely walking away. 

She thinks back to their kiss — their first kiss, which took place in the absolute worst of places. She muffles a groan as she lets the water hit her face once more. 

She shouldn’t have kissed her. She knows that. But she was there, and she was gorgeous, and she wanted it too. Her hands move down her body to her breasts, which are covered in soap. Her nipples are harder than she expects, and she whimpers softly as her fingers graze them. Her hands keep moving down, and she wishes Eve would look at her now — a complete mess, waiting for her to come in. Why is she always waiting? 

She doesn’t touch herself, although she knows she needs some sort of release from all this built-up tension in between her legs. She just can’t bring herself to do it. 

She steps out and wraps herself in a towel. Once outside the bathroom, she finds Eve on the bed engulfed in her phone. 

“Texting another assassin?” she asks, and Eve looks up. Her eyes widen at the sight of her in nothing but a towel, and Villanelle smirks. “Should I be jealous?” 

“I’m playing Candy Crush,” Eve admits shyly. “You took forever.” 

—

Eve’s shower is cold, because she needs it to be — because she needs to stop thinking about Villanelle in nothing but a towel, Villanelle dripping wet, Villanelle kissing her, Villanelle, Villanelle, Villanelle… 

But even with the cold water, she can’t stop herself from dipping down in between her legs to meet her throbbing ache. She throws her head back, her fingers moving in slow circles, as she gasps in pleasure. She thinks about how if she was braver, she would have left the bathroom door open too. She wishes that she had. 

She doesn’t let herself finish, because that would somehow make it worse. She gets out of the shower, dries herself off, and changes into new clothes, before coming out of the bathroom. 

Villanelle is sitting on the bed, flipping through channels, dressed in a gorgeous red, white, and blue sundress. So patriotic. 

“Now I feel underdressed,” Eve says. 

“You look beautiful,” Villanelle says immediately, then quickly looks down, as if she hadn’t meant to say that. “Are you ready to go?” 

— 

They walk together to the festival, which has already begun. It’s much larger than Eve had anticipated. There’s carnival games, an outdoor movie screen, performers, and even a few rides — and, of course, hot dogs and fireworks. 

“It says the fireworks start at nine,” Villanelle says. “What do you want to do until then?”

Eve looks at Villanelle, who has a child-like excitement in her eyes. “Let’s get you that goddamn hot dog,” she says. 

— 

They eat their hot dogs silently, watching the people around them. Children run around with sparklers, couples win stuffed animals for each other, and teenagers chug beers until they puke. And where do Villanelle and Eve fit into all of this?

Eve thinks back to where they were only a few days ago, and how they’d been tugging at each other back and forth with text messages, calls, and murder clues. Now they’re sitting across from each other, and Villanelle is gobbling down her third hot dog, as she watches a clown on stilts with wide eyes. 

“I hate clowns,” Eve says, shuddering as the man passes by. 

“Really?” Villanelle asks. “But that one kill I did…”

“Absolutely hated it,” Eve laughs, and Villanelle pretends to be offended. 

“It was one of my finest works,” she says. “I went to clown classes.”

“You did not!” Eve says, because of course she wouldn’t. She didn’t even read Billie’s profile. 

“I didn’t,” Villanelle admits, laughing. “I would have hated it.” 

They sit in silence again, until Villanelle asks, “Which one was your favorite?” 

“Oh,” Eve thinks, sticking her tongue out in concentration, as if she’s about to pick her favorite child. “Is it bad if I say the hairpin?” 

Villanelle’s eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, so I peaked very early on for you,” she jokes. 

“No, no,” Eve laughs. “Oh, God. What are we doing? These are real people. People who died — who had family, friends…”. She trails off, shaking her head at the absurdity of it all. 

“Hairpin was pretty cool,” Villanelle says and Eve can’t help but laugh. 

— 

Villanelle eats cotton candy as they watch the fireworks light up the sky. They’re sitting on a blanket on a hill, with dozens of people around them. Villanelle’s legs are stretched out, one atop the other. She rests her weight on her right elbow, while holding the cotton candy in her left hand. Eve lies next to her, with her hands behind her head. She stares at Villanelle, who looks perfectly innocent and harmless and beautiful. 

“Whoo!” the assassin exclaims when the larger fireworks go off. Eve wonders if she’s always like this, when she isn’t killing — is she always this playful and endearing? “Look, Eve,” she says, pointing at the sky. “Those are my favorite.” 

A bright pink light engulfs them for a moment, and tiny specks of light fall down in the shape of a flower. It’s beautiful, but Eve doesn’t want to take her eyes away from her. 

—

They walk back to the hotel together and Villanelle yawns loudly. 

“You must be exhausted,” Eve says. “You had such a long flight and then a really long day.”

Villanelle shrugs. “I don’t sleep well lately, anyway.”

“Me neither.” 

“Are you driving back home?” Villanelle asks, once they reach the hotel. 

“I think so,” Eve says, because what would it mean if she stayed? How much more will power does she have? 

They take the elevator up together, so Eve can get her bag. Villanelle, tired and sleepy and horny, pictures what it would be like to press Eve up against the walls of the elevator. But she doesn’t. 

When they reach the room, Villanelle opens the door and lets Eve go in first. She watches as she packs her bag and walks around the room to make sure she isn’t leaving anything behind.  _ You are _ , she wants to say.  _ You’re leaving me behind _ , but she just leans quietly against the wall and follows her around with her eyes. 

Finally, Eve has nothing else to pack up. She sighs and looks at Villanelle, then says, “Thank you… for… your help.” 

Villanelle simply nods. 

Eve walks up to her, and for a moment she thinks she might stop — she might pull her in, might kiss her, might fuck her. But Eve just keeps walking, past Villanelle, and out the door. 

And in the empty hotel room, Villanelle feels an ache in her chest she’s only felt once before — in Rome. 

— 

Eve exits the hotel room and closes the door behind her. In the elevator, she rests her head against the wall and brings her hands up to her face. She thinks of all the things that have just happened in the past few days — she thinks of Mr. Renshaw, of the only phone call she knew how to make, of the feeling of chopping up a frozen body into tiny bits, of scrubbing the kitchen floors clean, of driving with her, of kissing her, of seeing her — truly seeing her. And her words keep echoing back —  _ Did you like it? Did you like it? Did you like it?  _

She did, she admits to herself. She liked all of it. Because somehow this wasn’t like it was with Raymond — this wasn’t anybody else but herself who made that choice. And Villanelle was on her side — truly on her side — in a way she doesn’t think she can ever get back if she leaves now. 

But she  _ should  _ leave now. She should. 

— 

Villanelle slips out of her dress, undoes her ponytail, and puts on a stupidly expensive, pink, silk robe. She sighs, and runs her hands through her hair. She’s tired —  _ exhausted  _ — but she knows she won’t sleep for more than half an hour without waking up in a cold sweat. 

She looks out the window at the night sky, which is now pitch black. It’s hard to imagine that it was once illuminated by the most beautiful colors. 

She steps away from the window and heads towards the mini fridge. Inside she finds tiny bottles of alcohol. She pulls one out at random, and opens it up. As she walks around the room, she drinks it, enjoying the burn as it goes down. 

She thinks of Eve — because what else is she supposed to think of? She thinks of the way she looked covered in blood and sweat, of the way she joked and laughed, of the way she let her kiss her in the restroom stall. She downs the rest of the tiny bottle and throws it on the ground. 

Suddenly, she craves gummy bears — or candy corn, just for the hell of it. 

She digs out a couple crisp dollar bills from her bag and heads for the door, wondering where the nearest vending machine is — but when she opens the door, she finds Eve standing in front of her. 

She blinks a few times, unsure if she’s real. 

“Eve,” she wants to say, but she doesn’t — because she can’t — because suddenly Eve’s lips are on hers. Suddenly, she’s being pushed back into the room. Suddenly, there’s hands in her hair, tugging at her desperately. 

The door closes behind them, and Villanelle lets Eve push her against the nearest wall. Her breath is hot and sweet and perfect.

“Eve,” she finally says in a soft whimper. Her hands move up to cup her face. “Eve.” It’s all she knows how to say. 

  
  



	6. a million little times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things get very, very, very NSFW! :-)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW  
> NSFW  
> NSFW  
> NSFW
> 
> enjoy :-)

***

_Look at this idiotic fool that you made me_

_You taught me a secret language I can’t speak with anyone else_

_And you know damn well_

_For you I would ruin myself_

_A million little times_

illicit affairs - Taylor Swift

***

She doesn’t know what she’s doing — she doesn’t care. All she knows is that she can’t stop — can’t stop wanting her, touching her, kissing her. 

She brings her hands down Villanelle’s body, and she lets a moan slip out when she meets her breasts. Villanelle moans too, pressing her body against Eve’s hands. Through the soft silk, Eve can feel her hard nipples, which makes her head spin. 

One of Villanelle’s hands moves into Eve’s hair and tugs slightly, while the other moves down to meet Eve’s right hand. She squeezes it, making Eve squeeze her breast, which makes both of them whimper into each other’s mouths. 

They keep kissing, desperately, and all Eve can think about is how they didn’t do this sooner. She thinks back to how she should’ve kissed her in her apartment in Paris, in the ruins of Rome, at every gas station they stopped at, in elevators, and under fireworks. 

— 

Somehow, Eve tastes even better — sweeter, darker — than she did before. Her hot tongue meets hers, and she feels like her body is the night sky and Eve is the beautiful pink light that illuminates her. She feels like she’s the cotton candy that melted in her mouth. She’s the sweat that clung her shirt to her body, the blood that stained her hands red, the shared rush of murder and chaos and lust. 

Villanelle’s hand, still holding onto Eve’s, tries to slide further down her own body, but Eve doesn’t let her. She brings both of their hands back up and over their heads, pinning her wrist to the wall. 

“Mmmph,” Villanelle argues, her hips pressed against Eve, searching for more — so much more that Eve is refusing to give her. 

“Fuck me,” Villanelle whimpers, her fingers tightening in Eve’s curls. The words come out less like a command and more like a plea, but it’s too late to take them back. “Fuck me.” 

She’s never felt this desperate — and part of her hates that she allows Eve this vulnerability, this submission. But in the haze of pleasure, all she can do is beg. 

—

Eve lets go of her wrist and steps back, but Villanelle lunges forward — to keep kissing her, to keep tasting her, to keep any kind of contact. She ends up pushing Eve all the way to the wall opposite them. 

Villanelle’s kisses trail away from Eve’s mouth and along her jaw and down her neck. 

“I’ve never done this before,” Eve breathes out. And it’s true. She hasn’t done anything remotely like this before — but she’s dreamt and daydreamed and pictured it, even when she didn’t want to. 

“I know,” Villanelle whispers against her skin. Her hot breath against her exposed neck makes Eve weak. She closes her eyes and furrows her brow in pleasure and frustration. 

—

Suddenly, Villanelle is being pushed back again — and she lets it happen, because she loves the feeling of being pinned against the wall by Eve — _only_ by Eve, who carries a power so profound it makes Villanelle _want_ to be weak. 

She thinks back to the thrill of being chased throughout Europe, and how every murder could have led them to this. _You’ve caught me_ , she thinks. _You’ve finally caught me._

Without thinking, she spreads her legs just enough to let one of Eve’s knees slide in between them. 

—

“Oh, fuck, Villanelle,” she says breathlessly, feeling her warmth on her leg. She realizes that underneath the silk robe, Villanelle is wearing absolutely nothing else. 

The realization makes her growl in desperation, pushing herself forward and onto her. 

—

Villanelle lets herself be pressed even harder against the wall, her throbbing sex aching for friction against Eve’s leg. 

“Please, Eve,” she begs again, leaning forward to keep kissing her — and in between open-mouthed kisses, she says, “Just fuck me.” 

—

The words ring in Eve’s ears — _just fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me._

Her entire body is set ablaze, burning with the desire to give Villanelle everything she wants — to satisfy every ache she’s ever had. But as she pulls away to look into her hazel eyes, she can see everything — all the hurt she’s caused, all the lives she’s taken, all the people that she’s ruined. 

_You ruined me_ , her own words come back to her. _Fuck me, fuck me_ — but _you ruined me._

—

Villanelle can tell that something inside of Eve is changing by the way her grip against her gets tighter, and her eyes grow darker, darker, darker. 

Suddenly, she doesn’t know if Eve is going to fuck her or kill her. 

“You ruined me,” Eve says, but her body keeps pressing harder against Villanelle’s, and her leg moves up to tease her ache. “You ruined me,” she says again, almost in a growl, as she tangles one hand in her hair and pulls. 

Villanelle’s head is moved to the side, exposing her neck to Eve, who leans into it. She shudders and whimpers at the feeling of her lips, her tongue, her teeth. 

—

Eve’s fingers tighten their grip on Villanelle’s hair, while her other hand moves down to untie her robe. 

“Fucking take this off,” she commands, and Villanelle does what she’s told, dropping the robe onto the ground. 

They stand there for a moment — Eve completely clothed and Villanelle completely nude — both relishing in the juxtaposition of their bodies. 

—

Villanelle smiles without realizing, as she feels Eve’s hand finally — _finally_ — move down to where she needs it most. She decides that she doesn’t care if she’s about to die, as long as she’s about to be touched.

—

When Eve’s fingers reach between Villanelle’s legs, they both lean into each other — foreheads pressed together, as if they’re each other’s only source of balance. 

“You’re so wet,” Eve whispers, almost incredulously. “You’re so _fucking_ wet.” 

— 

She knows she’s wet — she knows she’s _dripping_ for Eve. But it’s the fact that she's said it out loud — that her want, her desperation has been _exposed —_ what makes her clench hard. 

—

Eve — who only has the tips of her fingers pressed against Villanelle’s entrance — can feel her desperate clench, trying to pull her in. 

She pulls back again, breaking all contact with her body — which makes Villanelle confused, but she doesn’t care. 

She wants to take her in — her bare chest, her white skin, her scar. She wants to stop and memorize every inch of her, to study her, to know her inside out — or, at least she knows she _should._ But there’s an ache inside of her she needs to satisfy — an ache that does not stop — an ache that cannot wait — an ache that can’t afford the pleasantries of hopeless romantics. 

—

Eve crashes against her, much harder than before. Villanelle wraps her arms around her, pulling her even closer, and spreads her legs for Eve’s hand to effortlessly slide in between them. 

— 

This time she doesn’t hesitate — she slides two fingers inside of Villanelle in one bold, swift motion. 

“Fuck,” Eve gasps, flushing red, feeling Villanelle’s tight, wet walls surrounding her. “Oh, fuck,” she says again, watching as the blonde’s eyes roll back in pleasure. 

—

Before Villanelle can get used to the feeling of Eve inside her — spreading her in ways she’s only dreamt about — Eve starts moving. 

“Oh, baby,” the words slip out of her, and she sees Eve’s eyes widen at the endearment. 

—

She clings to the word _baby_ , _baby, baby._ Suddenly, she feels flushed — _flustered._

So she fucks her harder — she fucks her _desperately_ , watching Villanelle’s body move with every thrust, her hips meeting the rhythm of her fingers. 

And Villanelle keeps begging —in the form of whimpers and squirms — for her to never stop. 

She thinks back to the way it felt to slide the knife into her — how the warmth of blood escaped her body, covering Eve in a mess of red. She thinks of the way her heart raced as Villanelle moaned from the pain. 

And now here she is again, and Villanelle’s eyes are so wide and submissive — her moans rising from a different, almost worse kind of pain. 

— 

Being senselessly fucked against a wall was not how Villanelle had pictured her first time with Eve — but all those fantasies pale in comparison to this. 

She feels herself tightening around her, and wonders how much longer she can go on without coming undone. 

“Does that feel good?” Eve asks, but knows that she doesn’t need an answer to know that it does. 

“Mhm,” Villanelle hums, anyway — unable to form words. She reaches out and grabs Eve’s hips, pulling her closer. 

—

Eve lets herself be pulled onto her. The pressure of her own hand — still knuckles-deep in Villanelle — against her own clit makes her gasp. For the first time, she becomes aware of her own throbbing ache. 

She finds herself grinding against her, and with each desperate thrust, she buries her fingers deeper in Villanelle. They both moan, almost in sync, as they move against each other. The room is filled with the sounds of moving bodies and the desperate noises that rip out of them. 

—

Villanelle doesn’t realize they’re moving until her head hits the bed. Instinctively, she wraps her legs around Eve, letting her go deeper. 

She’s been fucked before, of course — but never like this. Never with such ferocity — such _darkness._

She looks up at Eve and wonders if this is what it’s like when her victims look into her eyes, knowing they are so powerless and weak to the fate that lies ahead of them. In some sick and twisted way, she knows it’s true and it makes her even tighter. 

Her entire body vibrates, and she lets herself be taken. 

—

Eve leans forward, needing to feel more of her — needing to kiss her anywhere she can. Her mouth moves from her collarbone to her chest to her hard nipples. She licks and sucks and bites, and something about it feels so intimate and raw. The ache between her own legs becomes almost unbearable. 

Villanelle arches her back, and tangles one hand in Eve’s hair. She brings the other down to her clit, moving in desperate circles. 

Eve moves back up to kiss her, leaving bruises and teeth marks on her breasts. Villanelle kisses her back sloppily, with her hand speeding up against her clit and her legs tightening around Eve’s hips. 

—

She’s close — so close, so close, so close. And she realizes that she hasn’t let herself cum to the thought of Eve in so long — and now she’s here, deep inside her, kissing her, fucking her — and she doesn’t know how to stop. She doesn’t _want_ to stop. She wants to give her everything, once and for all. Everything, everything, everything. 

“I’m…” she whimpers. “I’m so close.” 

“Are you going to cum for me?” Eve asks, and her entire body feels electrified by those words. 

“Mhm,” she whimpers, almost in defeat — because it’s so inevitable.

“Cum for me then,” Eve says, as low as a growl. “Cum for me, baby.”

And that simple word — and all the tender implications that it carries — tips her over the edge. 

Eve’s eyes widen as the grip around her fingers tightens, tightens, tightens — and then, a release. She feels her clenches roll down her fingers, one after the other, as her body shakes beneath her and Villanelle moans a string of words in a language Eve doesn’t understand.

— 

They both breathe heavily, the aftershocks still trying to keep Eve inside. 

“Can I…” Eve asks, suddenly unsure of what to do next. “Should I slide out?” Villanelle nods, so she does. 

She rolls off of her, and they lie next to each other for a quiet moment. Her fingers, still wet and dripping, tingle with the memory of Villanelle’s tightness. Without thinking, she brings them up to her lips and dips them inside her mouth. 

—

“Fuck, Eve,” she says, watching her with wide eyes. “Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” 

Eve slides her fingers out and shakes her head. “Never.”

“Why are you still fully dressed?” she asks, furrowing her brow. She props herself onto her elbow and reaches down to unzip her jeans. 

“Aren’t you exhausted?” Eve asks, remembering that she hasn’t slept since her flight into the States. 

“Yes,” Villanelle admits. “But I’ve dreamt of this for so long. I could do it in my sleep.” She leans in to kiss Eve, but stops halfway. “Unless… you don’t want me to?” Her voice is small and nervous, and Eve can’t help but smile up at her. 

“I do,” she reassures her. “I _really_ do.” 

— 

She undresses her slowly, and Eve lets her. She takes off her pants first, then kisses up her legs and in between her thighs. Through Eve’s thin underwear, she can feel her wetness on her lips. 

She can’t help but breathe in deeply, taking her all in. And she knows she can stay right there, like that 

forever — but Eve tugs on her to keep undressing her.

She pulls off her shirt next and frowns when she finds that she’s wearing a bra. Eve notices the disappointment and reaches her hands back to unclasp it, but Villanelle shakes her head. 

“Let me,” she says. 

—

Villanelle is more gentle than Eve had expected, but she doesn’t mind it — it’s a change of pace she didn’t know she needed. 

So she lets herself be taken care of — she lets herself be touched and kissed and tasted. She doesn’t care, as long as she has Villanelle’s attention on her and no one else. 

She thinks of the day she saw two women sneaking out of Villanelle’s room. She thinks of _I’m not with them when I’m with them_ , and how she hadn’t believed it then. But now — now with Villanelle’s mouth worshipping every inch of her — she can’t imagine her with anyone else. Or at least, she doesn’t want to. 

—

She’s seen Eve naked once before — and she had ached to touch her, then. But she held back. For ages, she held back. 

And now she has her, naked in a hotel room, all to herself — and she has no idea what to do or where to start or how to ever bring herself to stop. 

— 

Eve throws her head back, as Villanelle kisses down her body, with wandering hands that touch and grope and squeeze all the right places. 

She spreads her legs for her, and Villanelle slides a hand in between them. 

— 

Villanelle feels her heart burst in her chest, when she feels how wet she is. _All for me_ , she thinks, as she slowly, slowly, slowly slides two fingers in. She watches in awe as Eve throws her head back in ecstasy. 

“Oh, fuck me,” she moans out. And Villanelle knows it’s just an expression, but she does as she’s told and starts to move inside her. 

—

Eve doesn’t realize how desperate she is to be fucked until Villanelle curls her fingers, hitting her g-spot just right. And when she does, she feels herself blush at how quickly she’s going to finish. 

_Thank you for the…_ she remembers. _The sex?_ And it makes sense now. _Yeah._

—

She doesn’t want her to cum yet, and she can tell she’s close. But if she's going to, she needs it to be in her mouth. 

So she kisses her way down, and Eve gasps at the realization of what she’s going to do. 

— 

She grips at the sheets as her hips move up to meet Villanelle’s mouth. 

“Oh,” she moans. “Villanelle.” 

And Villanelle, who truly is exhausted, doesn’t show it. She moves her fingers in and out of Eve at the same rhythm that she runs her tongue against her clit. 

“You taste so fucking good,” she moans in between her legs, and it makes Eve clench around her. “So good.” 

She’s never felt this way before — certainly not with Niko.

She realizes, then, that she’s always had this ache buried deep inside of her — an ache that nobody had ever been able to satisfy. But now there’s Villanelle, who reaches into the depths of that ache and coaxes out these waves of pleasure that immobilize her. And she doesn’t know how she does it, but she never wants her to stop. 

—

Villanelle feels overwhelmed — by the sound of moans mixing together, the smell of sex in the air, the taste of Eve Polastri on her tongue. 

Her own sex is still throbbing, still dripping wet — she finds herself grinding against the bed as she buries her face in between Eve’s legs. The slightest friction against her sensitive clit makes her moan, and the vibrations against Eve make the grip around her fingers get tighter, tighter, tighter. 

“I’m cumming,” she groans out, followed by loud moans that take over her body. 

—

Eve cums hard, bucking her hips against her, and Villanelle gratefully takes every last drop. Eve grips onto her hair, pulling at it tightly. She rides the orgasm, arching her back, and letting herself come undone into Villanelle’s mouth. 

“ _Oh, baby_ ,” she moans over and over. “ _Baby.”_

And if she weren’t so exhausted, Villanelle would beg to be fucked into oblivion.


	7. i can see us (twisted in bedsheets)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post-smut nonsense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEW TWITTER! Follow me @taylordswiftfix pls 
> 
> Also this is still very NSFW (and my longest chapter yet!) 
> 
> Enjoy :-)

***

_ Salt air and rust on your door _

_ I never needed anything more  _

_ Whispers of “Are you sure?” _

_ “Never have I ever before” _

_ — _

_ And I can see us twisted in bedsheets  _

_ August sipped away like a bottle of wine  _

_ ‘Cause you were never mine _

august - Taylor Swift __

***

Eve and Villanelle sleep soundly throughout the night and well into the afternoon, stirring occasionally only to move closer to each other — their naked bodies craving warmth. 

Villanelle buries her face in Eve’s hair, breathing in her scent — hotel shampoo, sweat, and something else. Something new. She holds her tightly, and Eve feels at peace, being wrapped up in her arms. One of Villanelle’s hands wanders down and reaches Eve’s scar, running her fingers along it. Eve’s body reacts to the touch, and she pushes herself back, pressing against Villanelle. The assassin's breath hitches, her still-sensitive clit sending a wave of pleasure up her body. She whimpers into Eve’s ear, and buries her face deeper into her curls. 

Eventually, Villanelle rolls away. Eve follows, pulling the blonde’s bare back against her chest. In her sleep, Villanelle smiles.

Eve, who is dreaming of fireworks, says, “Villanelle.”

It’s groggy and grumbled, but she perks up at her name. 

“Mhm?” she responds lazily. 

Eve doesn’t say anything else, but she doesn’t have to. Villanelle turns around to face her, and she’s immediately pulled in. Her face is buried in Eve’s chest, and suddenly she feels almost like a child — she can’t remember the last time she’s been held like this. 

Eve’s arms wrap around her tightly, her lips resting on Villanelle’s forehead. 

“Hmm,” she breathes out, content. And they both fall back asleep. 

—

They wake up again, when sunlight streaks into the hotel room. 

“Eeeeve,” she groans, rolling away from the embrace and hiding under the covers. 

“What?” she asks, annoyed — at being woken up, but mostly at the sudden movement of Villanelle’s body away from hers. 

“The sun,” she grumbles. “Turn it off.” 

“You are such a brat,” she says, but she gets up and closes the curtains. “You’re the one who left them open.”

“You distracted me,” she defends herself, and Eve scoffs. 

The room is not as dark as it once was, but Villanelle doesn’t complain anymore. Eve gets back into bed, and Villanelle scoots closer to be held again. When Eve rolls onto her side, facing away from her, Villanelle pouts. 

Eve feels Villanelle come up from behind and snuggle into her. She knows this is how they spent most of the night, but now that she’s awake, she knows she should push her away. It’s one thing to fuck. It’s another to share a bed. But now they’ve done both. 

She feels a pang of anxiety climb from her stomach up to her chest. Her head feels full with racing thoughts of the night before — thoughts that trigger feelings of regret and embarrassment and shame, but also of relief and desire and lust. She doesn’t know what to do, but she knows she can’t stay like this — tangled up with the woman who shot her, who stole her life away, who ruined her. Her own words from the night before flood her mind, and every fiber of her being is begging to run away. 

Villanelle shifts slightly, nuzzling into Eve’s hair and tightening her hold on her. She’s already falling asleep, but she manages to say, “You feel so good.”

Suddenly, the tension in her chest relaxes. She lets herself feel Villanelle against her — feels her breathing peacefully, letting out tiny snores. She feels her arms — one under Eve’s pillow and the other wrapped around her, hand on her abdomen. She reaches her own hand to touch it, and Villanelle instinctively interlocks her fingers with hers. 

She realizes that even if she ran away, she would be running in circles. So she decides she’s too tired to get up, too sleepy to care. At least for now, she lets herself fall back asleep. 

— 

Around two o’clock, Eve’s government-issued phone begins to ring, startling them awake. Eve stumbles out of bed and digs through her purse, while Villanelle groans and rolls away from the loud sound. 

“Shit, shit,” Eve mutters to herself, and then, “Hello?”

“Oh, so you  _ are _ alive,” Carolyn’s voice comes through. 

“Carolyn?” she asks, surprised. 

Villanelle emerges from the covers, and finds Eve pacing around the room. Feeling Villanelle’s eyes glued to her, Eve becomes incredibly aware that she is naked. She scrambles to find the nearest piece of clothing and slips it on. 

“You didn’t send in your personal security code this morning,” Carolyn explains. “People in the office were already making bets on whether you had been killed.” 

“ _ Killed _ ?” Eve sits down at the edge of the bed, and Villanelle inches closer. “What? No! Oh my… I overslept. I’m fine, I’m fine,” she laughs nervously, running her free hand through the tangles of her hair. 

“Very well,” Carolyn clears her throat. “Well, you owe me 20 quid.”

“Wh-”

“Villanelle has become active again,” she cuts her off abruptly. 

“Oh?” She feels a knot in her throat. She turns to look at Villanelle who is eyeing her with curious eyes. 

“Don’t worry. There is no reason for her to suspect anything about your whereabouts,” Carolyn goes on nonchalantly. “For all she knows, you really  _ are  _ dead.” She pauses for a moment, then says, “Eve?”

“Yes?” 

“May I remind you that in the unlikely event that Villanelle  _ does _ make any kind of contact with you, you are legally obligated to relay any and all information to MI6?” It’s less of a question and more of a threat, and Eve suddenly feels like a seven-year-old caught with her hand in a cookie jar. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she manages to get out. “I know.”

“Good,” she says, then immediately hangs up. Eve puts the phone down and rubs her eyes, the feelings of anxiety creeping up again. 

“Are you okay?” Villanelle asks, but Eve doesn’t say anything. “What did she want?” There’s a protectiveness in her voice that Eve recognizes. 

“She’s checking in,” she explains. “She knows you’re killing again, so she’s making sure you haven’t killed  _ me _ yet.” This makes Villanelle laugh. 

“Only a tiny death,” she teases with a smile. Eve turns to her, and finds soft eyes looking back at her — eyes that momentarily flicker down to Eve’s lips. 

She leans in, hesitantly, but Eve turns away. Villanelle kisses her cheek instead. She frowns, though she can see that Eve is still blushing. 

“I need to brush my teeth,” she says — and though it’s true, it’s not why she turned away. They both know this. 

She gets up to walk towards the bathroom, but before she can get too far, Villanelle reaches out a hand and stops her. 

“You look  _ very _ sexy in my robe,” she says. 

“Shut up,” Eve says, with half of a laugh. Smiling smugly, Villanelle watches her walk away. 

—

After brushing her teeth, she stares at herself in the mirror — her hair is big and wild, and her eyes look tired. She looks down at her hands, which she hadn’t noticed are shaking. Under her fingernails is still the dried blood from killing and disposing of Mr. Renshaw.  _ God, that feels like forever ago.  _

She looks back up at her reflection, remembering the night in the hospital restroom when she first crossed paths with Villanelle.  _ It feels like yesterday.  _

“What am I doing?” she whispers to herself. “What am I doing?” 

— 

Eve takes forever in the bathroom, so Villanelle decides to check on her. She knocks twice, but doesn’t get a response. She can hear the shower on the other side of the door. 

“I’m coming in,” she announces, opening the door. 

She sees Eve — naked and wet and beautiful — in the shower, and immediately looks down. She doesn’t know why. She’s seen all of her now — she’s  _ touched _ all of her. Still, she turns away and starts to brush her teeth.

She looks up at her reflection, admiring the glow of a good night’s sleep and an even better night’s fuck. 

Suddenly, she hears Eve from the shower.

“Villanelle?”

“Uh-huh?” Her toothbrush is still in her mouth. 

“Can you pass me a towel?” 

Villanelle looks over at the towel that Eve has left resting on the toilet seat, clearly at arm’s reach. 

“Mhm,” she hums back, spitting out the toothpaste. 

She grabs the towel, then taps on the shower door, which Eve opens almost immediately. Villanelle is met by a cloud of steam, which clears to reveal Eve staring darkly at her. 

She opens her mouth to say something, but suddenly she’s being pulled into the shower. 

—

Eve doesn’t mean to do it, but suddenly her mouth is on Villanelle’s, and they’re stumbling into the shower together. It’s a forceful move lacking entirely of grace. The briskness of it all makes Eve lose her balance and she slips, but Villanelle instinctively catches her. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, but Eve’s only response is to keep kissing her. Her hand wanders down her body, resting on her breasts, then her hips, then between her legs. Villanelle does the same, too impatient to wait. They find each other’s aching, throbbing sex at the same time, and slide inside each other simultaneously. 

It’s clumsy and messy and their wrists hurt from the awkward angle, but they don’t stop. They move desperately against each other, pushing each other against the walls of the small shower space. 

Villanelle cums first, and the clenches that roll onto Eve’s fingers trigger her own orgasm. 

—

Villanelle’s back is pressed to the wall, and hot water is streaming down onto them. They pant heavily, with hearts beating in their ears. 

“Fuck,” Eve breathes out. “Why is it so  _ fucking _ good?”

Villanelle smirks, and says, “We should have done this a long time ago.” 

“We were too busy trying to kill each other,” she jokes, laughing at the absurdity of it all. Villanelle can’t help but laugh with her. And it’s nice — to laugh together, to cum together. 

They step out of the shower and get dressed, eyeing each other and blushing. She feels like she’s seventeen again and Villanelle is the girl from Homeroom she swears she doesn’t have a crush on (but definitely does). 

“We need to head back to Madison,” Eve says, once they’re both fully dressed. 

“Without breakfast?” Villanelle asks, with big eyes and a pouty face. 

“ _ Breakfast _ ? It’s almost four in the afternoon,” she says. 

Villanelle shrugs. “So?” 

—

They end up at an IHOP, where Villanelle orders a strawberry milkshake, a stack of cupcake pancakes, two eggs, hashbrowns, bacon, and extra sausage. Eve orders a black coffee and an omelette. 

She sips on her coffee as she watches Villanelle stab food aggressively with her fork. 

“So,” Eve says slowly, dragging out the word. Villanelle looks up. “Are you…” She hesitates, waving her hands over her coffee. Villanelle’s eyebrows shoot up expectantly. “When do you go back?” 

She puts her fork down and says, “Soon.” The word is firm, but there is a smallness in her voice. “But…” she hesitates because she knows she shouldn’t say this. “I am getting a promotion.”

“Oh?” Eve’s eyes widen, and Villanelle wonders if she is impressed. 

“I am moving up in the world,” she says proudly. “Soon I will be able to go anywhere I want.”

“Where are you now?” she asks, but Villanelle stuffs her mouth with pancake and refuses to answer.  _ Fair enough.  _

“MI6 knows you are alive,” she says. “They are keeping you safe?”

“Making me look dead is their way of keeping me safe,” she explains. “Better than witness protection.”

Villanelle shrugs. “Would have saved me a lot of heartache.” 

“Do The Twelve know you’re here?”, she asks, pretending not to notice the implications of her last comment. 

“No,” she says. “But if I don’t leave soon, they will figure it out. And they will also figure out you are alive.” She pauses, then adds, “They don’t like you very much, Eve.”

“I’m well aware,” she sighs, taking another sip of her coffee. 

They share a moment of silence, and Villanelle tries to come up with things to say to break it. She feels nervous, suddenly — unsure of where she stands with Eve. 

“You are the best fuck I’ve ever had,” she blurts out suddenly, catching Eve off guard. 

“Oh,” is the only thing she can manage to say. 

“Yep,” she says, and now she thinks she probably shouldn’t have said anything at all — but Eve is beginning to blush, so maybe it isn’t so bad. 

“W-wow, um,” she stutters out. “That’s… I’m…” 

They fall into another awkward silence, but this time Eve is the one to break it. 

“You are for me too,” she says hesitantly. “The best…  _ fuck _ … that I’ve had.” 

Villanelle smiles into her pancakes, and Eve blushes behind her coffee mug. 

—

“I can drive,” Eve offers. “You drove us here.”

“I like driving,” she says. “Also I’ve never seen you drive. What if you are a reckless driver?”

“I’m not!” Eve argues, but gets in the passenger seat anyway. 

“When was the last time you drove?” Villanelle asks, as she starts the car. 

“That’s irrelevant,” she says, realizing that she hasn’t driven since college. Villanelle gives her a hearty  _ Ha!  _ so she adds, “It’s like riding a bike.” 

“A bike that could get both of us killed if you are reckless,” Villanelle says, and Eve remembers what an annoying smartass she can be. “Don’t forget about the seatbelt.”

“I know about the seatbelt!” Eve exclaims, clearly agitated, as she reaches for it. 

“O- _ kay _ !” Villanelle responds, eyes wide and pretending to be offended. “I didn’t know you had road rage too.” 

“I don’t have —!” She throws her hands up in the air. “Just drive the car!” 

Villanelle smiles to herself, completely amused, and pulls out of the IHOP parking lot. 

—

“So, I am better than the Moustache?” Villanelle asks suddenly. Eve looks up from her game of Candy Crush and blinks twice at the boldness of the question. 

“Oh, god, Niko was…” she trails off, thinking of the last time they had sex. “He was a nice guy.” She decides that’s a reasonable enough answer and goes back to her game. 

Villanelle seems satisfied for a moment, but then adds, “Did you ever think about me while you were with him?” 

Eve puts the phone back down and looks at Villanelle, who is still looking seriously out at the road. She shakes her head in disbelief and pretends not to hear her question. 

“Eve?” she eggs on. 

“That’s… it’s not something you ask people,” she says.

“Hmm,” Villanelle thinks. “I thought about you.”

At her words, Eve feels a bolt of electricity rise from her chest and shoot down her body. She’s known this, of course. She’s known since Paris, but somehow it’s different now that they have actually touched. 

“I thought about you all of the time,” she goes on. “All the people I fucked — I pretended they were you.”

Her hands tighten around her phone, and she swallows hard. She can feel her heartbeat in her chest — getting faster, harder. 

“Sometimes I even called them Eve,” she says. “I tried to get the ones who looked like you, but… nobody really does. And I knew when I touched them that I wasn’t touching you. I knew that touching you would be so much better — and I was right.” 

Suddenly, she’s overly aware of how hard she’s breathing — but she can’t help it. She feels her blood rushing down between her legs, and she can’t believe that she’s getting turned on again — at what? The thought of Villanelle so desperate for Eve that she looks for her in everyone she fucks? 

“I didn’t even try not thinking about you,” she continues. “I  _ wanted  _ to think about you, Eve. It made it so much better — it made me cum so much  _ harder _ .”

Eve imagines her with other people — kissing them, fucking them, calling them her name, and then orgasming with them. She clenches her jaw — a mix of arousal and jealousy and desperation washing over her — and she presses her legs together, trying to hide the throbbing ache that grows in between them. 

“The night in Rome when I touched myself, I knew you were listening.” Villanelle’s voice is suddenly shaky, and Eve realizes that she’s turned on too. “You did, didn’t you?” 

Villanelle turns to look at her, and Eve nods silently. She feels another bolt of electricity just from looking into her dark eyes. She doesn’t know how much longer she can bear this ache. 

“Did you touch yourself too?” The question is almost a whisper. Eve nods again, and watches Villanelle’s chest move up and down with her unsteady breathing. “Fuck, Eve.” 

She sees Villanelle’s white knuckles as her hands tighten around the wheel. 

“I had a feeling,” she says, still out of breath from pure arousal. “That’s why it felt so good that night. That’s why—”

“Pull over.” The words interrupt her, and it takes Eve a moment to realize that it’s her voice that spoke them. 

“What?”

“Just fucking pull over,” she demands impatiently. 

Villanelle pulls over to the side of the road. As soon as she shifts to park, Eve is climbing on top of her and reaching down to the side of the seat to pull a lever that brings the back of the seat down until they’re nearly horizontal. 

“Fuck me,” she commands, and Villanelle doesn’t question it. 

She watches as Eve undoes her pants and pulls them down just enough to give her access. She slides her hand in and is immediately met by wetness. 

“Fuck me,” she says again, so Villanelle slides two fingers inside. Eve moans out in pleasure, but shakes her head. Villanelle is about to pull back out, when Eve says, “More.” 

“More?” 

“I need…  _ more,”  _ she moans out, and Villanelle suddenly understands. She slides out her two fingers, and immediately slides back in with three. “Oh,  _ fuck _ .”

Eve throws her head back, bucking her hips forward. She reaches her hands out for balance and cups Villanelle’s breasts. She moves on top of her, dripping down onto Villenelle’s fingers and into her lap. 

She leans forward and kisses her. 

“I thought about you too,” she says into Villanelle’s mouth. “I thought about you too.” 

—

Eve cums on top of Villanelle, trembling and spasming and moaning out her name. She collapses onto her chest in exhaustion, and Villanelle holds her. 

“I don’t know why,” Eve whispers — mostly to herself. “I don’t know why I can’t stop.” 

Villanelle gives her a small chuckle, and thinks  _ This is the opposite of a problem _ . “Then don’t.”

“You’d love that.” 

“I would,” Villanelle admits. “You would too.”

“Yeah,” Eve laughs. “It’s fucked up, but I would.”

Villanelle frowns because she doesn’t know why it would be fucked up, but she doesn’t ask. Instead she says, “Are you going to fuck  _ me _ now?” 

“Hmm,” Eve thinks, her head still on Villanelle’s chest. She can hear her heart, which is beating hard — pleading, pleading, pleading. 

“Please?” Villanelle pleads along with it. “Just from fucking you, I’m already so close. I just need you to  _ touch _ me.” 

Eve smirks at herself, relishing in the power that she holds — the ability to make Villanelle  _ plead.  _

“Maybe,” she says, deciding that’s a suitable answer for now. “When we get home.” 

“You’re going to make me ache all the way there?” she asks, and there’s both disappointment and excitement in her question. Eve nods her head. “That’s so fucking hot.” The excitement wins over. 

— 

They reach Eve’s house and find her mom on the front lawn, tending to a flowerbed. 

“Eve,” she says, delighted to see her. “What time did you get home last night?”

“I’m just getting home now,” she explains. “I went to the festival in Hartford.” 

“I was so worried,” her mom exclaims, getting up and wiping the dirt off her hands. 

“I left you a note!” Eve reminds her, but she just shakes her head. 

“Oh, but you know how I am,” she says, then eyes Villanelle. “Who is your friend?”

“Oh, this is Vi—”

“Vivian,” Villanelle interrupts her in a posh British accent. “A friend of Eve’s from London. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, Vivian,” she says. “I am Jeung-sun, but you can call me Jenny if it is easier.” 

“Jeung-sun is a lovely name,” she says, sincerely, and Eve can swear she can see her mom blush. 

“Oh, thank you,” she says shyly, then eyes the red car behind them, and asks, “You drove Eve to Hartford?” 

“Yes.”

“Thank god,” she laughs. “She is a terrible driver.”

“Omma!” Eve exclaims, as Villanelle bursts out laughing. “Jo-yong-hi ha-se-yo.” 

“Eve!” Villanelle says dramatically, swatting at her arm. “Do not speak to your mother that way.” 

“You know Korean?” Jeung-sun asks, eyebrows raised in delightful surprise. 

“I studied it in college,” she lies in perfect Korean, then switches back to English. “I’m a bit rusty.” 

“I like her,” she says to Eve, who rolls her eyes — because of course she would like Villanelle, when she’s trained to be charming and delightful and perfect. “Are you staying for dinner?” she asks her. 

“Oh, Omma,” Eve says before she can respond. “She has to fly back to London.” 

“Actually,” Villanelle says. “My flight has been delayed. And I would  _ love _ to stay for dinner.”

Eve looks at her with sheer panic in her eyes, but Villanelle simply shrugs and gives her a sly smirk. 

—

“I thought you needed to leave soon,” Eve says as they dump their suitcases in her room. 

“Your room is cute,” she says, avoiding the conversation Eve is trying to have. She looks around at the posters of Cyndi Lauper and Bruce Springsteen. “Very eighties.”

“Yeah, well I decorated it when I was a teenager,” she says, then pauses. “You hadn’t even been born yet.” 

“Nope,” she responds half-heartedly, as she looks through the old pictures of Eve that are stuck to the mirror. 

“We are so fucked up,” Eve sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed as if in defeat. 

Villanelle smiles and asks, “That’s what’s fucked up? That you are older?”

“ _ So _ much older,” she says. “And it’s only one of the many things that’s fucked up.”

“You don’t think it’s a little hot?” she asks, leaning against Eve’s dresser and turning to face her. 

“Our age difference?” Villanelle nods, and Eve suddenly feels nervous. “Is it for you?” She nods again. 

She thinks back to when she first met Niko and how the age gap had been so exciting to her then — perhaps the  _ only  _ exciting thing about them. She wonders if this is what it's like for Villanelle now — if the age difference fuels the spark between them, and if it’ll die out just as it did for Eve with Niko. 

“When are you going back?” she asks again. “I would really rather The Twelve not find out I’m alive.” 

“Don’t worry so much,” Villanelle says. “I will leave soon. It’s just dinner.” 

She thinks the answer will bring some relief to her anxiety, but instead she feels an ache in her chest. 

“You should sleep here tonight,” she finds herself saying. “Don’t go back to the hotel.”

—

Villanelle doesn’t want to leave — she wants to stay in the quaint town of Madison, Connecticut for as long as she can. She wants to stay with Eve, who flusters and excites her — and leaves her aching on the side of the road. But she knows she has to leave for both of their sakes. 

“Will you touch me again, Eve?” she asks, sitting next to her in the bed. “Before I leave.” 

“My mother is downstairs,” she reminds her. “And you… you’re very loud.” She feels her own cheeks flush as she remembers the way she moaned the night before — and then again this morning. 

“I can be quiet,” she promises, but Eve doesn’t know if she can believe her. “I can be  _ very  _ quiet,” her voice turns into a whisper as she leans in to kiss Eve’s ear, then down to her neck. 

Eve closes her eyes, letting herself be kissed. She brings a hand up to Villanelle’s hair. She tangles her fingers in it, pulling it slightly — and she can tell Villanelle is already struggling to stifle a whimper. Her hand slides down to her chest, and she pushes her down so her back is on the bed, but her legs are still dangling off. Villanelle looks up as she stands up and hovers over her. 

“Take off your clothes then,” she says, and Villanelle smiles. 

— 

Eve is looking up at Villanelle from between her legs, with two fingers buried deep inside her and a tongue tracing circles around her clit. She watches as the blonde squirms and writhes in the pleasure of being fucked and the pain of not being able to moan. Villanelle grips tightly onto the sheets with one hand, while another holds a pillow close to her chest. 

“Hmmph,” she lets out, before biting down onto the pillow. “I’m…” she says breathlessly, but doesn’t finish her sentence, too afraid she’ll let out a moan if she does. Instead she bites back down onto the pillow. 

“I know,” Eve says, and the vibrations of her voice against her clit are too much. She lets out a whimper that Eve deems to be a little too loud — so she stops. 

She leans back and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving Villanelle teetering on the edge. 

“Wh-wh…” She’s so breathless. “What are you doing, Eve? Why did you stop?”

“You are being loud,” she says, and it’s only half-true — mostly, Eve decides she doesn’t want to give up the control just yet. 

“No,” she argues. “I am being so quiet, you just feel  _ so  _ good.” Eve smirks and shakes her head. “Please, Eve,” she begs. “Please, baby.” 

Eve leans over Villanelle’s body, her hands on either side of her, and kisses her. Villanelle accepts her tongue in her mouth with such desperation that it makes Eve smile into the kiss. 

“Maybe later,” she says, and Villanelle groans. “After dinner.”

“Do you promise?” she asks, pulling away from the kiss and looking up at her with big puppy eyes. 

“No.”

— 

Eve’s mom sends them to the convenience store to pick up milk. They decide the weather is nice enough for a walk, so Eve leads the way. 

“This is the same way to the restaurant,” Villanelle says. “Is it nearby?”

“Yes,” she responds curtly. She doesn’t want to think about the restaurant, because then she’ll think of Mr. Renshaw. And then she’ll have to ask herself questions she doesn’t want to know the answers to. 

“I wonder if the police know he’s dead by now,” she thinks aloud. Eve stops in her tracks and Villanelle looks up confused. 

“Can we not talk about that?” 

“Why not?” she asks, genuinely curious. 

“Because I…” she groans. “I’m not like you.”

“Of course you are,” she says cheerfully, as if murdering people is a delightful thing to bond over. 

“No, I’m  _ not _ ,” she argues — and there’s an anger to her words that shocks them both. “I can’t just kill someone and then feel nothing.” 

Villanelle furrows her brow and says, “Do you think I don’t feel  _ anything _ when I kill?” 

“Do you?” she asks almost sarcastically, which Villanelle doesn’t appreciate. 

“I do,” she says defensively. “I feel  _ everything.  _ And so do you.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Eve scoffs. 

“Are you upset, Eve?” she asks, feeling her own anger begin to bubble up in her chest. “About killing him?”

“Of course I’m upset!” she exclaims in a harsh whisper, looking around to make sure nobody is around to hear this ridiculous conversation. 

“Are you?” she pesters on. “Or are you upset at how much you  _ enjoyed _ it?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” She’s furious now — at Villanelle, at her implications, at the way she’s asking her the very questions she was trying to avoid. 

“If you were really upset about it, you wouldn’t be fucking me,” Villanelle says matter-of-factly. “You would not even let me touch you.” 

Eve scoffs again and shakes her head. But she’s right and she knows that she’s right — because if she truly were upset she wouldn’t have even called Villanelle, much less let things go as far as they have. Villanelle, in all her murderous and psychopathic glory, awakens the monster deep inside of Eve — a monster that she’s been smothering for years. A monster that is finally coming up and out to breathe. 

The truth is that she  _ did  _ enjoy killing Mr. Renshaw, just as she enjoyed killing Raymond — but these aren’t things that you admit to yourself, much less say out loud. These are things you bury. These are things you only share with someone who is just as dark and twisted and fucked up as you are. But there’s a secret language to these things — an unspoken rule that Eve thought was understood between them. 

And now Villanelle is ruining everything — like she always does. 

“Come on,” she says, finally. “We have to get milk.”

— 

Dinner is delicious, but insanely awkward — at least for Eve. Villanelle, as Vivian, is the life of the party. She makes her mom laugh more than she’s ever heard her laugh before, with fake stories of Eve in London that paint her as much more adventurous than she actually is. Eve just nods along and picks at her food, trying to keep her head down and her eyes away from Villanelle’s gaze. 

Villanelle seems to notice, and makes it a point to interact with her. She reaches across the table and taps on her hand, asks her questions she knows she can’t answer, and gives her a knowing look whenever their eyes do meet. 

“This was absolutely scrumptious,” Villanelle announces once they’ve finished. “Please, let me get the plates.”

“No, no,” Jeung-sun says. “You must be so tired. You girls go.”

— 

Villanelle follows Eve quietly up to her bedroom, nervously wondering if she’s going to be kicked out and forced to return to her hotel. 

“You need to leave,” she says as soon as Villanelle closes the door behind them. “When my mom goes to bed, you can sneak out. Tomorrow I’ll tell her you left early in the morning to catch your flight.”

“You are still angry,” she sighs. “Maybe we should talk about it.” 

“God, you sound like Niko,” she groans, but immediately regrets it. Villanelle’s eyes widen. 

“That’s what I am to you, Eve?” she asks. “Like the Moustache — something you can just use when you are bored? And then throw away?” 

“I  _ love _ my husband,” she says, more to herself than to Villanelle.“I don’t…”  _ I don’t love you _ , she wants to say, but the words get stuck in her throat. 

“You do,” Villanelle says, and her voice is quieter than she intended it to be— softer. “And I do too.” 

Eve shakes her head and begins pacing around the room, burying her hands in her hair. How are they here again? 

“You need to leave,” she repeats.

“Why?” Villanelle asks, finding herself getting annoyed at Eve’s hot-and-cold game. 

“Because,” she says, still pacing. “I can’t have you here.”

“Why not?” she asks, walking up to her. “Because you’ll fuck me again if I stay?” 

She means it just to aggravate her, just to make her even angrier — because if she’s going to be angry at her, she might as well be furious. But then Eve catches her off guard. 

“Yes,” she says, and Villanelle takes a step back, unsure of what to say next. “If you stay, then I will fuck you.” She pauses, then adds, “and I will have to admit that you are right.” 

“About what?” Her voice is a whisper, riddled with insecurity and want — all of her annoyance dissipating in the shock of hearing Eve’s words. 

She sighs, then says, “Everything.” 

The single word pulls Villanelle in like a magnet. She kisses her, half expecting Eve to push her off. Instead, she kisses her back and pulls her in. There’s a different level of desperation — of vulnerability — that wasn’t there before. 

Eve knows that it’s too late now — she’s too far gone. The moment Villanelle leaned into her, she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop her. And now she’s kissing her like it’s the only thing that’s keeping her from going insane. 

She doesn’t want to talk — there are too many things that she isn’t ready to say out loud, so many things that she can’t bring herself to admit. Not yet. So she settles for this instead — kissing and touching and pouring all the anger and resentment and lust and love into Villanelle. 

_ This is so fucked up _ , she thinks to herself,  _ to love a psychopath.  _

Her hands move all over Villanelle’s body, with no intentions of being soft. She pushes her onto the bed and immediately climbs on top of her, grinding as she bites down on her neck. 

“Please fuck me, Eve,” she begs, and Eve remembers that she has been aching since the car ride. 

“Call me baby,” Eve demands, whispering in her ear. “Call me baby and I’ll let you cum.” 

“Fuck,” she whimpers softly, remembering she’s supposed to be quiet. “Please, baby.” 

—

Villanelle cums incredibly quickly after being pent up all day. But Eve doesn’t stop — she fucks her senselessly until Villanelle can’t help but cum again. She bites onto Eve’s shoulder to avoid making too much noise, but desperate sounds still escape her mouth as she collapses on Eve’s fingers. 

She thinks she’s going to stop now — that they’re going to switch and she will get to feel Eve’s wetness. Instead, Eve kisses down her body, and soon Villanelle is cumming for a third time — this time in her mouth. 

She fails at being quiet, but Eve doesn’t seem to care. In fact, she smiles smugly up at her, relishing in the fact that she can’t contain her pleasure. 

—

Eventually, Eve rolls off of her and they both breathe heavily next to each other. 

“Do you want me to…” Villanelle begins. 

“I don’t think I have the energy,” she laughs. 

“You didn’t have to do me three times,” she points out. “I could have given you a break.”

“I know,” she says. “I just couldn’t stop.” 

“It was perfect,” she says, a smile on her lips. They turn to face each other and she finds a softness in Eve’s eyes that wasn’t there this morning. “You are beautiful.”

“And you just came,” she reminds her. “So nothing you say now really counts.” 

Villanelle froans and says, “So if I told you that I loved you it wouldn’t count?” 

Eve doesn’t say anything, but her breath catches in her chest. She knows that as hard and unforgiving as their sex was, it was bursting at the seams with something more — something profound that she’s ever felt before. But Eve can’t put a name to it — she  _ refuses _ to. 

“Do you still want me to go?” she asks when Eve doesn’t respond. “I think your mom is asleep.”

Eve shakes her head. “Stay.” 

Villanelle thinks for a moment, then asks, “Are you happy here? In Madison?” 

Eve shrugs. “I’m alive here, so I can’t complain.” 

“Eve, you deserve to be happy,” she says. 

“I don’t know about that,” she jokes, but there’s some truth behind the statement. 

“You do,” she says. They lie there, in silence, for a long moment while Villanelle builds up the courage to say, “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere,” she says. “ _ Everywhere _ . It doesn’t matter.” 

“You just want to travel across the world, fuck in hotel rooms, and what?” she asks. “Wait for The Twelve to kill us? Or MI6?”

“They won’t find us,” she reassures her. “And if they do, I will keep us safe.”

Eve is transported back to Rome, when running away to Alaska felt like a plausible solution to all their problems. She thinks of all the times she wondered what would have happened if she’d gone with her. Suddenly, the opportunity is here again — at her feet — and she feels terrified. 

“My mom…” she says, but she knows it’s not about her. 

“She is a strong woman,” Villanelle says, which is true. “She will be okay.” This is also true. 

“And your promotion?” she asks because there has to be something —  _ anything _ — that will make Villanelle realize this is an absurd suggestion. 

“Fuck the promotion,” she scoffs. “Come with me,” she says again, softly. “Be with me.” 

There’s a tenderness to her that Eve knows is reserved just for her — a tenderness that comes from more than post-orgasmic bliss, but from deep within her. 

She doesn’t know how long they truly have together, before they’re murdered or they just completely consume each other. Somehow — with Villanelle’s soft eyes looking into hers — it’s a lot less terrifying. 

“Okay.”

—

Villanelle helps her pack, while Eve writes out a long-winded letter to her mom. It’s a classic goodbye full of  _ I’ll miss you _ and  _ I’m going to be okay  _ and  _ I love you _ . 

“I promise to buy you new clothes,” Villanelle says as she ruffles through her dresser. 

“My clothes are fine,” she argues as she folds the letter and stuffs it into an envelope. She looks at the time. “Jesus, it’s almost three in the morning.”

“We should hurry up,” she says. “We can drive to Canada first. Have you ever been?”

Eve smiles to herself, endeared at Villanelle’s excitement as she helps her put things in a suitcase. 

“I have,” she says. “It’s beautiful.” 

—

Villanelle is giddy, twirling around the room like a little kid as she helps Eve get ready to leave. She thinks of all the wonderful places they’re going to visit — Canada, South America, maybe even Australia. She knows that both The Twelve and MI6 will be looking for them, but she chooses not to worry about that until they’re right in front of her for her to shoot at. 

She watches Eve, who is remarkably calm, as she packs alongside her. She seems to notice her staring because she stops and looks at her too. 

“What?”

“You  _ are  _ beautiful,” she finds herself saying. “Even if I just came. You will still be beautiful hen I’m horny and when I’m sleepy and when I’m on my period.” Eve laughs, but she’s not entirely sure why. 

“You are —” Eve begins, but she’s interrupted by a ringing phone. They both look around confused. 

Villanelle finds the phone on top of the dresser. She looks at the caller ID, curiously, and in an instant her heart drops and her smile fades away 

“Who is it?” Eve asks. 

“Niko.” 


	8. no other shade of blue (but you)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of a ringing phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took me FOREVER to upload! I will be posting chapter 9 a lot sooner this time. There's been a lot going on in my personal life (all good things) so I have been extra busy. Please leave comments and kudos and follow me on twitter (@taylordswiftfix). Love you all and thanks for reading my little fic <3

_ *** _

_ My only one _ _  
_ _ My kingdom come undone _ _  
_ _ My broken drum _ _  
_ _ You have beaten my heart _ _  
_ _ Don’t want no other shade of blue but you _ _  
_ _ No other sadness in the world would do  _ _  
_ _  
_ _ hoax - Taylor Swift _

_ *** _

“Give me the phone,” she says, reaching out to grab it. Villanelle immediately stretches her arm up towards the ceiling, keeping the ringing phone away from Eve’s reach. “Are you kidding me?” she groans, jumping up to try to snatch it. 

“You can’t answer,” she says, gripping onto the phone and keeping it just high enough to avoid Eve’s hand. “He thinks you’re dead,” she reminds her. 

“Clearly he doesn’t,” she says, out of breath. 

“Maybe he butt-dialed you?” she suggests. Eve seems far from convinced with the idea, but gives up when the phone stops ringing. She brings her hands to her hips and sighs. 

“You’re such an asshole,” she says, and Villanelle shrugs. 

“Maybe he’ll leave a message,” she jokes, making Eve roll her eyes. She lowers the phone back down, and they look at each other for a moment. She’s about to say something more, when the phone chimes and makes both of them gasp. 

_ One new voicemail — Niko Polastri  _

“Shit,” she says, as Eve snatches the phone from her hand. She watches her pace around the room, phone to her ear. She can faintly hear the muffled sound of a man’s voice. 

—

“Hey… God, what am I doing?,” Niko’s words play back. “I just had the most ridiculous thought that maybe…  _ maybe _ … you’re still around… somewhere. That you aren’t gone… But that’s — that’s impossible, isn’t it? … If you are, though,... somewhere out there. Then…” She hears him sigh heavily, then say, “Fuck, just come home, Eve.” 

The message ends and Eve brings the phone back down. Villanelle raises her eyebrows expectantly, but Eve looks away. She sits down on the bed, and suddenly she thinks she might be sick. 

_ Just come home _ , Niko’s voice resonates — Where is home? Is it here with her mom? Is it in London with her husband? Is it in bed with Villanelle? Where is home? 

“Eve,” she says, but Eve doesn’t seem to hear. She crouches down in front of the bed, so that they are at eye level. Carefully, she slips the cellphone out of Eve’s hands and plops it onto the bed. There’s an anxiety in her voice as she says, “Eve, we need to go.” 

“I—” She raises her hand at Villanelle, and the assassin wants to reach for it and pull her up to her feet. She wants to drag her out of the house, push her into the car, and drive her far away — far from moustaches and ringing phones and second thoughts. But she doesn’t do any of that. 

“I can’t,” Eve says, finally, and Villanelle feels her heart drop. There’s a sudden heaviness in her chest that nearly knocks her down, but she fights to keep the balance on her feet. 

“Eve,” she says in a small, almost trembling voice. They have been here before. It feels like they are  _ always _ here — they never leave this moment, this limbo, this never-ending loop. All she wants to do is to go back — back to twisted sheets and flirty car rides and fireworks and candy corn. 

“I can’t go with you,” Eve says — as if it needs any clarification — turning her gaze away from questioning hazel eyes and down to the cellphone that sits beside her. 

“Because of the Moustache?” Villanelle asks incredulously. 

“Because of...,” she sighs, still unable to lock eyes, as she looks around the room for an escape from this conversation — an escape from this situation, this mess of a life. When she doesn’t find one, her eyes meet Villanelle’s. Finally, she speaks, “...of my  _ husband. _ ”

The word incites a scoff from Villanelle.  _ But you’re mine _ , she wants to say. _ You’re mine. You’re mine. You’re mine.  _ She wants to, but the last time she spoke these words, they left a sour taste that — still to this day — lingers on her tongue. 

Instead, she says, “A  _ shitty  _ husband.” 

Eve’s eyes widen, taken aback, while Villanelle chuckles to herself — as if she’s made a joke and not an honest observation. 

“He’s not…,” she argues. “He’s a good man.” 

“O-kay,” she mocks her, rolling her eyes. “A good man who never made you cum?” 

“A good man I made a vow to,” she reminds her, her voice growing louder and her tone harsher. “Who loved me — honest-to-god loved me.” She shakes her head and feels like the earth beneath her is going to swallow her whole.  _ He really loved me _ , she thinks, and a stinging sense of guilt overwhelms her as she remembers how she spent the last couple of nights. 

“Still a shitty husband,” Villanelle says — and with a sudden wave of boldness flushing over her, she leans forward. Before Eve can process the blonde’s movements, they are mere inches away. “For a  _ shitty  _ wife.” The words slip out so easily — so earnestly. 

Suddenly the guilt is replaced with anger — pure rage. Why does Villanelle keep doing this? Why does she throw in her face the things she’s worked so hard to bury? Why does she ruin everything? 

When Villanelle looks into Eve’s eyes, she can see it — this fire. She wants to smile, to be proud of herself for inciting such a deep stir of emotion in Eve. But she doesn’t smile. Instead, she finds herself matching that rage — matching the fire.  _ It’s a shared flame now _ , she thinks. 

“Fuck you,” Eve spits out, unable to find the words to defend herself, words to explain why she’s not a shitty wife — words that don’t exist. “Get out of this house.”

“And you are going to stay here, Eve?” she asks, unmoving and unwilling to leave the conversation. “You’re going to work at a shitty restaurant and live with your mom for the rest of your boring life?” 

“Get out,” she repeats. 

“Or are you going back to London to the Moustache?” she goes on, then shrugs. “It doesn’t matter where you are, Eve. It doesn’t matter who you are with.”

“Just get out.” Suddenly there are tears on Eve’s face, and Villanelle feels a familiar sting in her own eyes. 

“You will always be like me,” she says. 

“You don’t know who I am,” Eve shoots back, shaking her head. Villanelle raises her eyebrows — almost in amusement.  _ I do _ , she wants to say.  _ Better than anyone.  _ But she says nothing. 

They stare at each other for a moment — brown and hazel eyes locked on one another, revisiting the past — the images of each other; the good and the bad and the bloody. In the silence, Villanelle finds her rage slipping away from her — though she tries quite stubbornly to hold on to it. And in the absence of that rage what’s left behind is raw and sweet and real. 

Eve’s anger fizzles too, though not entirely. Still, what was once a flame is now a flicker. And beneath the heat she can recognize the fear — fear of leaving, of loving, of losing. She thinks back to when she worked at MI5 and how simple and easy and  _ peaceful _ it was. And now she’s stuck within the hurricane that is Villanelle — grasping onto those moments in the eye of the storm. 

“Come with me,” Villanelle whispers to Eve with utmost sincerity, breaking the heavy silence. “We can go anywhere you want.” 

Eve, without thinking, reaches out and touches her face. The blonde feels a shiver run down her spine from the unexpected touch — the unexpected warmth. Eve runs her thumb along her cheek, and Villanelle realizes that she’s wiping away a tear. 

“We can be happy together,” Villanelle adds, hoping, hoping, hoping that Eve will realize that she deserves happiness — even if she  _ is  _ a shitty wife. 

Eve feels a tug at her heart — no, more than a tug; a  _ pull _ . A pull so strong it might just rip the organ out her chest entirely if she doesn’t let it guide her where it needs to go.  _ Where is home? _ , she thinks again.  _ Where is home?  _

Eve’s phone chimes, but neither of them turn to look at it. It doesn’t matter what it is, but only what it could be. Eve sighs, feeling the burn of her own tears on her cheeks. 

“ _ You _ might be happy,” she says, her voice nearly breaking. “But you could never bring me peace.” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that there is a reference to "peace" which is NOT the song for this chapter, but it will all make sense eventually.


	9. leaving out the side door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Villanelle and Eve say goodbye :(

_***_

_I think I’ve seen this film before  
_ _So I’m leaving out the side door_

_So step right out  
_ _There is no amount  
_ _Of crying I could do for you_

exile - Taylor Swift

***

_You could never bring me peace._

They stare at each other in deep, aching silence. 

Villanelle, who is still crouching in front of Eve at the foot of the bed, lets herself fall slightly forward until all her weight is on her knees. Kneeling there, in front of Eve, it looks as though she is about to beg — beg to be seen, beg to be given a chance, beg to be loved. For a brief moment Villanelle thinks she just might. 

_You could never bring me peace._

Eve looks down at her, tears still streaming down both of their faces. She thinks of how young Villanelle looks — how fragile and delicate. Part of her wants to scoop her up into her arms and tell her that she doesn’t mean it. But another part knows that she does. 

_You could never bring me peace._

Villanelle’s eyes break away from Eve’s, and she finds herself looking down at her clenched fists — knuckles white and nails digging into her palms. Her vision blurs from the tears that well in her eyes — tears that won’t stop coming . She grits her teeth, as if it will stop her from crying. As if it will stop this from hurting.

_You could never bring me peace._

She wants to argue. She wants to tell Eve that she can offer her so much more than anyone else can — so much more than _peace_. But she knows it doesn’t matter. If peace is what Eve wants, that’s where Villanelle falls short. 

She sighs, her heart is aching. It takes everything in her not to pour it out to the woman in front of her. 

_You could never bring me peace._

“Are you going to shoot me now?” Eve asks, and Villanelle looks up confused. She doesn’t know if she should laugh or cry at the question — so she does both. Eve waits for her answer, and Villanelle realizes that even after everything, they are still in Rome. 

“No,” she says softly, shaking her head. She can’t say for certain that she doesn’t want to shoot her or that she wouldn’t do it if there was a gun in her hand. But it doesn’t matter if she wants to and her hands are empty anyway. 

Villanelle gets up, fully aware of Eve’s eyes following her around the room. Her movements feel ghostly — detached and mindless. And Eve knows that this image — Villanelle leaving — is going to haunt her. 

— 

She watches as Villanelle pulls out of the driveway and drives down the street, into the foggy night. She groans, wiping away the remainder of her tears. Her hands find the cellphone that is lying next to her and she twirls it in her hand. 

_Come home_ , is what Niko said. _Come home._

—

She drives recklessly, speeding through the town of Madison, Connecticut — as if the faster she gets out, the sooner she will feel like herself again. But when she passes the city limits, nothing changes. The pain doesn’t stop. The thoughts don’t slow down. 

And she realizes, then, that she may _never_ be herself again — not truly. Not when a part of herself is still bleeding in a Parisian apartment. And another is still screaming under Roman skies. And the very last bit of her is kneeling in front of Eve Polastri. There is nothing of her left now, she realizes. There is nothing left. 

—

Eve decides to call him, because she’s desperate and sleep deprived and needs to make this heartache worth something. The line rings only once before she hears a familiar voice.

“Eve?”

She doesn’t respond at first, unsure of what to say. What do you say in these situations? _Hi, honey. Guess what? I’m alive! Sorry I faked my death._

“Eve?” 

“Y-yes,” she finally says. “Yes.” 

“Oh my god,” he exclaims. “Is that really you?”

“Yes,” she says again. “It’s me. I’m… I’m alive.”

“Fucking hell.” 

— 

Finally on the plane, Villanelle rests her face against the window, looking out at the sky — the white clouds and the sunshine that pierces through them. She breathes softly, creating a slight fog on the glass. Her hand reaches up and draws a lazy V against the condensation, before wiping it away completely. 

She aches — in a way she’s never ached before. It’s one thing to want her and miss her and hate her, she muses — but it’s another thing to lose her after having had her. She huffs and melts down into her seat, eyes glued to the passing clouds that keep changing before her. 

“So,” a voice next to her says. “Are you travelling to Barcelona for business or pleasure?” 

Villanelle looks up and sees a woman with long red curls, freckles, and green eyes that nervously shift away from her gaze. 

“Business,” she says dryly, not bothering to fake an accent. She turns back to the window. 

“I’m going to my sister’s wedding,” the woman continues. “I hate those kinds of things, but… family is family.” 

Villanelle shrugs, eyes still on the clouds. She sees one that looks exactly like an elephant, but doesn’t get excited. Before she knows it, it’s become nothing but a shapeless blob of white again.

“So what kind of business are you in?” the woman asks, making Villanelle audibly groan. 

“Can’t you see I am trying to have a dramatic moment?” she says. 

“Yeah, clearly,” the woman scoffs. “Just thought you might need a little distraction from… whatever you're going through, I guess.”

Villanelle pauses for a moment, considering the unspoken proposition. 

“A distraction could be nice,” she agrees. 

— 

“Where are you?” Niko asks. “I can come get you now. I… Fuck, let me get my shoes on.”

“I’m in the States,” she says quickly. And then, to elaborate, “I’m back home.”

“ _What?_ ” 

“I know,” she chuckles, ignoring the obvious concern in his voice. “I hate it. Americans are the worst,” she half-jokes.

“Yes, they are,” he says, but he doesn’t laugh. There’s a brief pause before he adds, “Are you coming back?” 

“I… it would be dangerous if I did,” she says truthfully. “But honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing here. I…” She thinks back to her last few days — to Villanelle’s body against hers, to the unspeakable things she did to Mr. Renshaw, to smashing wine bottles on a teenager’s head. “I’m not myself anymore.” This is a lie, and she knows that. She has been more herself here than she ever was with Niko — which is why she has to go back. 

— 

Villanelle fucks her in the cramped airplane restroom, covering her mouth to muffle her moans. When she finishes, the woman leans in to kiss her, but Villanelle turns away. She doesn’t want to be kissed — she wants to be fucked. 

She can’t stand the thought that the last person to touch her was Eve. She needs to take that away from her. 

The woman thrusts deep inside her, eager to please. Villanelle closes her eyes and throws her head back, fighting back images of the last few nights — images that come flooding back. Delicate hands, wild hair, full lips. She pushes them out, one by one, until all she sees is the darkness behind her eyelids. 

She doesn’t orgasm — nor did she expect to, but she pushes the woman off. Satisfied for now. She opens the door and slides out, returning to her seat. A few moments later, the woman sits down next to her. 

“Fuck,” she says, a grin plastered on her face. “My name is Marcela.” 

Villanelle nods, but she doesn’t really hear it because it doesn’t really matter. She sulks back into her seat and looks out at the clouds again. 

— 

Eve’s second phone call is to Carolyn. 

“What is it, Eve?” she answers impatiently. “Has Villanelle contacted you?” 

“Oh, um,” She hesitates, then lies unconvincingly. “No, she hasn’t.”

“Right,” she hears Carolyn sigh. “What is so important, then?” 

“I want to go back,” she says. “Back to London. I-I know it’s dangerous, but I can’t just stay here anymore. I need to be home… I need to be with my husband.”

Carolyn scoffs, pauses, then says, “So long as you are aware of the risks of returning.”

“I am.”

“ _And_ you agree to come back to MI6,” she adds. “Otherwise, you would just be returning to Witness Protection, where you won’t be seeing your husband — or anyone you know for that matter.” 

“Wait, wait…” Her head is spinning. “Come back to MI6?” 

“As I told you before,” she explains. “Villanelle is active again. We need your _skill set_.” 

She knows what she means by that, but she doesn’t care. She just knows she needs to be on a plane to London as soon as possible. _Come home_ is what Niko said. _Come home_. 

Still — as she’s packing her bags and slipping the note under her mother’s bedroom door, she can only think of Villanelle. 

— 

When Villanelle opens her apartment door, she finds Dasha waiting for her at the kitchen table. 

“Nice vacation?” she asks and Villanelle shrugs. “How is America these days?”

She doesn’t respond, but her eyebrows shoot up in surprise and Dasha cackles. 

“I always know where you are,” she says. “Always.” 

“I know that.” And she does know that — and she feels stupid for going, for trying to hide it, for thinking she could get away. _None of it was worth it anyway_ , she thinks, but she’s not sure if that’s true. 

“It’s good you’re back,” Dasha says. “Your next assignment is in two days.” 

—

When Eve arrives at London, she’s met by Niko who looks exactly the same as when she last saw him. He practically runs up to her and holds her in a tight embrace. He smells the same, too. _Is this home?,_ she thinks. 

“Niko,” she greets him as they step away from each other. 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he says, his hands firmly on her shoulders— as if he’s afraid she’ll slip away again if he isn’t careful. Maybe she will. “You’re alive. I just…” 

“Hello, Eve,” a familiar voice says from behind Niko. Eve’s eyes widen as she sees Gemma, smiling awkwardly at her. 

“Oh, you remember Gemma, right?” Niko says. “She drove me up here. I was too damn nervous to do it myself.”

“You should have seen him,” Gemma jokes, and Eve notices how she places a hand on Niko’s arm. “He was a mess. Like a little kid on his way to see his schoolboy crush.” 

“Or a grown man on his way to see his dead wife,” she finds herself saying, and all smiles drop. 

“Well,” Niko clears his throat. “Shall we?” 

— 

As soon as Dasha leaves, Villanelle crawls into bed and hides under the covers. She falls asleep thinking of the clouds she saw on her way there. 

It’s the middle of the day when she startles awake, drenched in sweat, and reaching for her hand gun. She groans and flops back down. She forgot how realistic the nightmares were. 

She stares at the ceiling and wonders what Eve is doing. Is she still in the States? Did she go see the Moustache? Does it really matter? 

She rolls over and forces herself back to sleep. 

— 

“So you and Gemma?” Eve asks as soon as they walk into the house. 

“Eve, I—” he begins, but she interrupts him. 

“No, no, it’s fine,” she says genuinely. “I’m glad that you had someone.” It’s strange, but she means it. She is glad, and maybe only partly because it assuages her own guilt of sleeping with Villanelle. 

“So,” he huffs, setting Eve’s suitcase down. “Are you going to tell me what’s been going on?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Don’t get me wrong, Eve,” he says. “I’m happy that you’re alive. I truly am, but...” He runs a hand along his stubble beard. “I’m your husband.”

“I know that,” she says. 

“You made me believe you were dead,” he reminds her. 

“It was safer that way,” she tries to explain. “The Twe—”

“I _mourned_ you,” he interrupts. And suddenly she’s annoyed. She knows he has a right to be angry, to be yelling, to be asking for more of her. 

“Niko, please,” she groans. “I’m jet lagged and I’m tired and I need to rest. Can we talk about this later?” 

He throws his hands up in defeat and walks away. 

“I’ll wake you when supper’s ready.” 

— 

When Villanelle wakes up she wonders if the last few days have all been a dream — it certainly feels like it. She wonders what would happen if she texted Eve. Would she get a response? Would she be ignored? Would it come back undelivered? 

She brings a hand up to her face, her fingers tracing the outline of her lips. She feels phantom of Eve’s kiss. For a moment, she wishes she had let the woman on the plane kiss her — so as to erase and replace Eve’s touch completely. For a moment — _only_ for a moment. 

— 

Eve tosses in bed, fighting off the memories that try desperately to creep into her mind — memories that won’t let her rest. _God, I’m tired._

She finds herself staring up at the ceiling. She listens to Niko getting supper ready downstairs, and wonders if he stayed awake like this when he thought that she was dead. She wonders if his chest felt as heavy as hers feels now, if his mind overflowed with thoughts of her to the point it made him dizzy, if his hands and mouth and sex ached for what he could never have again. 

Without realizing it, she begins to cry. 

She knows it doesn’t matter how Niko felt, just as it doesn’t matter how Villanelle felt. They both mourned her — but Eve only mourned one. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Stream folklore and tune into the Killing Eve podcast I co-host with my girlfriend (Wear It Down: the Queer Killing Eve Podcast)! 
> 
> Follow me online 
> 
> Podcast — @wearitdownpod on Twitter, Instagram, and Tumblr  
> Me — @taylordswiftfix on Twitter & @savagesacrifices on Tumblr


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